


fadeIn

by tyrantmoves



Series: Jay Shepard [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Earthborn (Mass Effect), Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mass Effect 2, Renegade Commander Shepard, Ruthless (Mass Effect), Sexual Content, Substance Abuse, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 72,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrantmoves/pseuds/tyrantmoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Garrus isn't even sure whose side he's on anymore: trapped in the middle of her dangerous games.</p><p>Mass Effect 2 with a renegade Shepard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Clarity

A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in many, many years but I feel like Renegade!FemShep and Garrus don't get enough written about them. You can be an unlikable, mean badass and still find love, right? Also cross posted on FFNet, a kind reviewer suggested I feed it here to the masses and see if anyone's interested.

* * *

 

Many years later, Garrus Vakarian would try to reflect on the first time his human female gave him that dizzying, adrenaline-fueled clench in his chest.

He was sure it wasn't the first time she'd openly come on to him, a mischievous grin tugging at her mouth. It had been surprising but ... right. In retrospect, they had always been only a matter of time. Had it been at the precipice of Dantius tower, then? The svelte assassin had descended and Garrus was awkwardly, uncomfortably but undeniably jealous at her instant approval. The way her eyes - somehow still so cold in spite of the eerie red glow they'd taken on - had traced Krios's steps, as if downloading every cadence of how he moved into her brain. Although embarrassing, Garrus was fairly sure that wasn't the first time either.

No, of course not. Fittingly, he thought, it had to be _that_ moment - that gloriously fucked up, clarifying moment on the MSV Fedele. She hadn't hesitated to give the kill order on Garrus' word alone; unspeakably flattering trust among turians.

Writhing on the floor, pathetic and small,"Dr." Saleon died quickly enough from a single, expert shot to the chest. Garrus stood over his body, numb with what he'd done; handing out life to the deserving and death to the dastardly. This was the realm of the infinite now, an almost spiritual energy pounding through his veins and pressing fiery against his carapace. He'd killed before but not like this: a predator catching and cornering his prey, letting him beg and deny accusations just long enough to make it an execution. No handcuffs, no paperwork, no reciting of rights; instead, a clean bolt of justice on a lifelong coward. Beautiful.

Less climactically, he started feeling a trickle of discomfort at what he'd just done. It was a strange feeling; was he elated that he'd done the righteous thing, or because he'd done what he'd wanted in spite of every righteous, moralizing law he'd been taught? The anxiety of wondering whether his victory was tainted annoyed him; an obese, unwanted cloud pissing on his perfect moment.

"That was ... satisfying," he noted aloud, determined to believe it. Turning away from the dead salarian, he looked down at his rifle, trying to project aloofness as he fiddled with it.

She'd been watching him; unflinching and unreadable, as always. Eyes dark and lacking any warmth as they surveyed him. But there was something else there - something better than warmth or kindness or compassion - respect. Razor-sharp, blood-won respect. The same respect he'd glowed under when he conceded to wiping out the remainder of the Rachni race ("We already have a galaxy under attack and you were ... what? Hoping to add a little variety?" she'd sneered at the aghast turian councilor); or when he'd been the only one besides herself to unhesitatingly gun down any Thorian-possessed colonist that threatened them ("An unfortunate but unavoidable consequence, Admiral, sir," she'd reported tersely to Hacket.).

She stepped towards him, never breaking eye contact, jaw stiff. Garrus tensed in the cruel silence, awaiting judgement. "Good," she commended. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Remember that feeling."

She moved closer so they were only inches apart and glared up at him; unnerving, in spite of their height difference. He resisted the urge to squirm or backup - did she realize that turians only stood this close preceeding two things: fighting or fucking? Instead, he determinedly stared her down, hoping to mask his own intimidation with a suitably cool expression. "That's how it should feel." The rest was unsaid but understood, " _I gave you that - let you have it. Don't forget it._ "

A firestorm of sensation released in his gut, flooding him. His pride and terror at what he'd done had mixed into some sort of euphoric pleasure. She had given him this moment; not because she'd made him do it, but because she'd trusted him to do what he knew he had always been meant to do. In an immense galaxy, crawling with scum - crawling with so much scum that they'd managed to build empires and planets in their own sick image - justice came at the end of the barrel of a gun. He didn't like it but it was the grisly truth about their existence and someone had to pull the trigger, someone had to clean up this mess - why not him? Why not them, together?

"Are we clear, Vakarian?" She stood in front of him, awaiting a response, eyes never leaving his.

Later, after the Normandy exploded, he would stalk his scrappy, cheap rental for weeks; barely eating, passing out on a thin cot, drowning his sense of loss in shit that would topple an Elcor; not bothering with furniture or hygiene or keeping in touch with the people who loved him and kept calling and "just wanted to see how he was holding up"; he would sign up for Spectre training (the hypocrisy, the disappointment); he would agree to a dead-end job with C-Sec again (trading his soul for paying the bills); but through it all, he would lie awake reliving this moment. The intoxicating, stomach-dropping thrill of standing on the edge of the power to terrorize the terrors of the galaxy, to do something ...

... the pride, burning in Shepard's eyes when he'd responded. Calmly nodding yes, popping the heat sink and slinging his rifle over his shoulder, all renegade black energy to match her black, cavernous eyes ...

He understood her. Craved her presence, the approval, the silent, shared view that this was how things worked. It was him and her, against a fucked up galaxy and unafraid of using the enemy's own despicable tactics on them. Like a junkie, he'd eagerly anticipate the electricity that shot through his body every time she came near him, even long after leaving behind Saleon's rapidly rotting corpse, blood pooling around it.

"Move out. Blow this place to hell; I don't have time to be answering any questions."

He never forgot. Relishes the feeling still.


	2. Vessel of the Damned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to fossil for helping me out with some publishing quirks as I'm new to this format.

A ghost. He had seen a ghost last night. He had died, hadn't he? Garrus sat up and growled, burying his face in his talons. The constant beeping of machines, the harsh lights ... was hell a medical bay, then? All those years of meditating to connect with his ancestors when all along, you just ended up stuck in a bureaucratic, sterilized clinic for afterlife processing. _Wonderful._

"Garrus, you shouldn't - Garrus, can you hear me?" a familiar voice, laden with concern, came closer to him. His head throbbed, heavy and sensitive. A bad hang-over, maybe? (He had certainly had his share of bar nights that ended in fisticuffs. Maybe that was why his face was so sore, too?) Why couldn't he remember? A gnawing thought took hold: did he want to remember?

Daring to look up, he saw the relieved face of Dr. Chakwas in front of him. No, no, not Chakwas, he'd always liked Chakwas.

"But ... " he struggled to speak, his voice hoarse and scratchy. "You survived ... what are you doing here?"

"Well, your aural and bi-vocal functions seem to be working, that's good," she noted kindly, holding his chin and turning his head both ways. She jabbed something sharp into his arm and he winced.

"Doctor ... we're ... alive, right?" he asked slowly, uneasy. "Is this ... the Normandy?"

"We? Well, I wasn't sure about you for a while, but it looks like your vitals are reading just fine; so yes, Garrus. We're alive and aboard the Normandy." She stood in front of him and he blinked rapidly as his vision focused. "But Garrus ... are you alright? Shepard told me how she found you; at least you didn't OD on stims ... I don't know what she was thinking ..."

Shepard. Shepard. It was real. He stopped listening and got to his feet, wobbling. Chakwas grabbed hold of his elbow but he yanked his arm away quickly. She pursed her lips but said nothing.

"Shepard," he insisted, surveying the room; the logo emblazoned on the doctor's scrubs. "Cerberus. What's going on? Where is she?"

Clear blue eyes clouding with concern, she began carefully, "Garrus. _Garrus_." She shifted her weight, distinctly uncomfortable under his accusing stare. "I suppose I should tell you that you should be resting -" he interrupted her with a dangerous growl " - but I'm afraid I know better. It's complicated, Garrus. You should ... speak to her yourself." She turned away from him, determinedly picking through data pads on her desk.

"Where?" he demanded harshly, too tired and rattled to feel any sympathy for the doctor.

"Deck two, I imagine." She said nothing else while he walked away.

/

He heard her voice before he saw her, like a punch in ribcage. Head still spinning, he leaned against the wall, far enough from the door to not trigger the auto-open. Shepard's ... alive. Blurry images started streaming through his head ...gunshots, his father's voice, the bodies ... _oh spirits, their bodies, I just left them there ._.. that N7 insignia through his scope. The pieces of the last few days were strewn on the floor of his mind and he stepped carefully around them, not looking down. _Their bodies_ ... Breathing in deep, he felt his heart sink further. He welcomed numbness, emptiness now, as he moved to the door. _Shepard's alive._

"Tough motherfucker," Garrus heard someone mutter under their breath. Garrus didn't bother looking for the speaker; his eyes fixated on the figure standing at the head of the conference table, flanked by two other humans who looked vaguely familiar.

"You're really - you're alive." It wasn't a question; this was her, this was definitely her. He could see it in the hooded, unreadable eyes; the hard line of her jaw; the defiance of her arms-crossed position. Even the new, incandescent scars sprawled on her cheek couldn't diminish the fact that it was unmistakably her. Hell, she even smelled just like he remembered. "Shepard, spirits, I'm not complaining but ... how? There's no way you could have survived that ... " He couldn't bring himself to name the event.

"I could say the same for you, Vakarian," she replied, sounding almost bored, inspecting her fingernails instead of returning his gaze. Something wasn't right, he could feel it. There was a thick tension in the air. He looked around the room and noticed that the dark-skinned male and pale female were watching Shepard studiously. In turn, Shepard carefully ignored them. Once, Alenko had explained a human word to him: "deja-vu". Taking in the strange scene before him, Garrus was reminded strongly of Liara examining an artefact, or Tali picking apart an engine, and he thought he finally understood the feeling.

"Glad I could give you a run for your money, then. Who are your new friends?" he replied, just as casually, sauntering closer to the conference table. Why did they need to play this game? By the time they'd been out drinking, celebrating the destruction of Sovereign, they'd achieved a certain level of rapport, had they not? She'd even started indulging him in the occasional punch in the arm or a grin. Before Shepard could reply, the pale woman stepped forward.

"Operative Lawson," she greeted him curtly, holding out a hand. Garrus eyed it suspiciously, long enough that she awkwardly pulled her hand back and said with more than a hint of snide, "We met last night, actually, but I suspect you were too high to remember - "

"Cut him some slack, Miranda," the dark skin male snapped. He addressed Garrus but didn't offer his hand. "Jacob Taylor, ex-Alliance. It's great to have you on the team, Archangel. I've met plenty of impressive marksman in my time but damn, you're a hell of a shot even when you're completely wired. That's saying something." Eyes narrowing, Garrus said nothing in response to Jacob's flimsy grin. Jacob cleared his throat nervously and added, "You and the Commander probably have a lot to talk about; Miranda, why don't we - "

"No: it's fine," Shepard cut in. Garrus noted she still hadn't made eye contact with him since he'd walked in. Instead, she pulled out a chair and seated herself at the table, folding her hands in front of her. Her tone became derisive. "I was dead; Cerberus necromanced me back with technological black magic and a shit ton of credits. We have a mission to focus on."

That stung. Two years - two years of guilt, wistful thinking, sleepless nights - and that's all he was going to get? His head was buzzing again with memories: screaming, who had been screaming at him? Shepard? And then ... fire in his veins, energy pounding through him ... someone had slapped him. Spirits, how many stims had he taken in that bunker? "Completely wired", the human male had praised him. The old, Officer Vakarian would have been completely disgusted; this Garrus found he was only annoyed.

"Of course, Commander," Miranda nodded approvingly. "Thankfully Archangel has plenty of time to sober up; unless you wanted to take him to the quarantine zone? Another opportunity for heavily medicating your squad?"

Fixing her gaze on Miranda, Shepard reprimanded icily, "Do _not_ test me, Lawson. I don't have time for your passive aggressive bullshit. Go prep for the Solus retrieval mission." Frigid exterior melting somewhat, she turned to Jacob: "Jacob, find Garrus some quarters and then gear up. We move out in one hour." Garrus was mildly appalled: what was Shepard doing? Why was she so insistent on acting like everything was normal? The idea that maybe she'd been back weeks, or months, and hadn't bothered to contact him ate up his insides with acidic efficiency.

"That is, if you're staying," Shepard added stiffly, finally looking up at Garrus. It wasn't a command. But there was a strange expression on her face. Something he hadn't seen ever before. He couldn't place it though and she looked away from him before he study it further.

"I don't know what I agreed to last night," he began carefully. Shepard running between him and Garm, a flash of blue light. Garrus pushed the memories down and cocked his head sideways, "But I'm pretty sure it involves you shaking hands with a devil. And if that's the case, well, I'm with you, but I'll just keep his head in my cross-hairs, if it's all the same to you." He gave a pointed glare to the Cerberus operatives in the room, bitterly satisfied when Miranda's serene face twisted into a scowl.

The corner of Shepard's mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile but died quickly as Miranda started to warn Garrus, "If you try anything on our ship - "

" _My_ ship," spat Shepard. Dislike oozed off of her. " _My_ ship, Lawson, and I believe I told you to get your fucking gear together and move out. I don't like repeating myself."

"Yes, Commander," Miranda acquiesced, smooth as velvet, sitting down at the table. "A reasonable suggestion. But I've acquired more detailed information on the quarantine zone from an Omega contact that we could review ..." With a crack of her wrist, Shepard smacked the datapad out of Miranda's hand and it went flying across the room. The clattering it made reverberated awkwardly into the strained silence. To her credit, Miranda didn't flinch, but Garrus almost felt sorry for her as she flushed under Shepard's razor sharp glare. Without a word, she stood up and strode from the room, eyes forward.

Closing her eyes, Shepard inhaled deeply. Her scars shone brightly for moment, like lava moving under her skin, following the current of her rage. Garrus was more than a little nervous; he knew she had a temper but she'd always managed some semblance of formality and propriety. When she opened her eyes again, she was staring straight at him, giving him that strange look, etched in exhaustion. Where had he seen it before? It seemed so alien and wrong on her face. Jacob left the room and Garrus followed suit, still confused and alarmed, feeling her eyes burn into his back.

/

It wasn't until hours later, as he settled into the forward battery, losing himself in the work of fiddling with the weaponry, that it dawned on him.

Pleading. Her eyes had been pleading with him. He'd seen that expression on human fugitives he'd taken into custody, on witnesses he'd cornered, and especially on the faces of victim's families that he insisted on visiting personally.

But ... not Shepard. Shepard never begged for anything; what did she want from him now? He felt a tremble in his chest at the thought of Shepard needing his help and had to steady himself on the console. What did she need him to do? Something inside of him broke at the thought of her like this: a majestic, ferocious animal flanked by zookeepers, not allies. His idolized commander with a leash around her neck. Or a noose. Now _that_ was a sickening thought; were they threatening her? Did they have something on her to control her with?

Suffocated at the thought of being needed, being depended on again, Garrus stepped away from the console and sank onto a cargo box, breathing heavily. _Hold it together. Shepard needs me to hold it together. I can start there._

He had failed them - he had failed his team. The weight of it didn't come down on him like a great tree being felled but a tidal wave crashing around him, sublime and consuming. He didn't know what was going on or what nightmare Shepard was dragging him into this time, but he didn't care. This was Shepard - he was never going to be able to leave, having found her again under such insanely, universally improbable circumstances. Closing his eyes, Garrus heaved a great sigh of resolve.

Maybe this time he could actually help a friend and if it killed him, well, that was starting to look like a bonus.


	3. The Old Haunting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I am beginning to understand why AO3 is superior to FFnet ... the format is much nicer and also, there is a such an awesome community of reviewers and followers. Thank you so much for your kinds words and for reading! 
> 
> I don't usually put a disclaimer in because I mean, it's literally called fan fiction on so I obviously don't own it, but if you notice little lines here and there (especially from Shepard) that seem like they're lifted from some other cultural phenomenon, that's done on purpose. Not stealing. I'll explain later.

Nine days. Garrus had been aboard the Normandy for nine standard days and they hadn't had a single real conversation.

He couldn't be bothered to keep track of a lot of things any more: how many bullets he'd taken, how many head-shots he'd doled out, how much (or little) he slept, how quickly his credits were dwindling - but he was perfectly aware of every minute she avoided him. Thankfully he was still her top pick for most missions ground side, though. That meant less time to think, regret, and increasingly, less time to stew in anger.

Yes, it was probably for the best they weren't on friendly terms anymore, he thought with resignation. He'd finally had a chance to look at himself in a mirror - once was more than enough. Dr. Chakwas had provided him with powerfully potent painkillers; he had done enough time in the drug squad with C-Sec to know that these prescription pills weren't that far off from what floated around the black markets.

When they did go ground side together, it was surprising how quickly he fell into the old routine of following Shepard's lead. It felt good; an immense relief to not be the one making tough calls, to be only concerned with playing out his orders effectively and intelligently. How had she managed for so long, and with such higher stakes, to lead the team on the SR1? No matter what he had thought of himself on Omega at the time, in the end, he wasn't half the leader she'd been, he thought bitterly. A good leader - Shepard - would have sniffed out any treachery long before it came to fruition and utterly destroyed it.

Garrus was beginning to wonder how much of this isolation he could handle, if maybe he'd made a mistake by joining this mission, maybe he _had_ been fooled by a fake Shepard ... the side of his face throbbed painfully. Between the healing on his face, the stim-withdrawal tremors that still wracked his body and the faces of his squad sabotaging his dreams, he was blowing through his meds quickly. Tonight, Shepard had given them shore leave and some blissfully drug-induced stupor was the entirety of his plans for the evening. Then came a knock on the battery door.

"Yeah, one second - " he called out, quickly dropping the pill bottle into his bag and kicking it under his cot, "- all right, come in," and he looked up in surprise to see who he'd come to believe as the last person on the ship to visit him. Even the knock was strange; she was _Commander_ Shepard. Usually she just barged in and failing that, kicked doors open.

"Garrus," Shepard greeted, rubbing one arm. Dark circles spread out under her eyes like bruises, and she scanned the battery quickly. Garrus frowned. He had never really believed that the Commander would ever return but if he had, he wouldn't have imagined this jittery, self-conscious version. "Do you have a minute?" She folded her arms across her chest, tense and leaning away from him.

"Not if you keep acting like I'm going to bite you," the words came out before he could stop them. To his great relief though, it appeared to have been the right thing to say: her lips twitched into a short-lived grin. It didn't reach her eyes, he noticed, but she seemed to relax a touch.

"Well, there are those big teeth you have, granny," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Granny?" he asked, reveling in the feeling of normalcy that was seeding between them, wanting to nourish it.

"It's from a fairy tale that involves wolves eating children and the elderly."

"Well, no wonder humans are so skittish, if that's what you tell your young."

"Smart ass." A prolonged pause swelled between them; both too spent to continue the charade. And just as Garrus thought she was going to turn and leave, given that she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else but in this room with him, Shepard ventured awkwardly, "Drinks? I'm buying."

/

"Here," she said finally, having led them down meandering alleys and paths for the last twenty minutes. " _Perfect_."

Garrus looked up to see a ragged building on the brink of dilapidation: the only indication that it was even a bar being the piles of empty booze crates piled outside and the sound of rough patrons coming through the smeared, broken windows. "It certainly has it's charm," he muttered to himself, but Shepard heard and flashed him a warning look before ducking inside. This always had been, he reminded himself, her favourite type of haunt. _They couldn't have upgraded her taste in bars?_   He followed her inside, trying to ascertain the situation; Shepard had said nothing since they'd left the Normandy.

It wasn't until they had beers in hand; nabbed a wobbly, sticky table in the most shadowed corner of this shadowy bar; and glowered menacingly at any onlookers that Shepard finally, _finally,_ sagged in her seat in fatigue. She looked at him, face twisted in a cruel smirk."I know it's not your type of place, buttercup," she drawled, shifting in her seat to reach into her pocket, "But it's better this way. No ears, no eyes." Lifting a small box to her mouth, she pulled a cigarette out with her teeth and then tossed the box across the table, towards him.

"No thanks," Garrus said, and she shrugged, pulling out a flip-top lighter from another pocket. For a while he just watched her smoke, plumes curling in ribbons around her face, glowing as they caught the light from her scars. In his experience, a smoking Shepard was either a cloud of calm or a dragon firing up. "I doubt inhaling that stuff is good for ..." he gestured to the mangled side of his face, "... you know, my youthful looks."

He could have sworn guilt flickered across her features (a human expression he knew quite well), but it quickly soured to irritation.

Flicking ashes aggressively off the end of her cigarette, she sneered, "What the fuck do you want from me, Vakarian? _Pity_? I saved your fucking life, what's the big deal about a couple scars? Never took you for the vain type." The venom in her tone was surprising; he'd seen this behaviour many times but never directed at him. Even more surprising was his reaction; he'd always imagined it would be quite frightening to be on the receiving end of her temper. Instead, he found that he was only incensed and indignant. After all, she had dragged him through this shit-hole town on an even shittier nowhere-planet after ignoring him for days.

"Explain something to me, Shepard," he countered, a frost settling into his tone. "I can't even remember how I ended up looking like a vorcha cross-breed, so why exactly do you get to be the one who lashes out about it?" Her eyes widened at the unexpected counter-punch.

Cowed, she replied, "Shit. Look, I, um - okay, I didn't mean ..." She trailed off, looking so cornered that Garrus immediately felt ashamed. He'd never seen her look so embarrassed and he'd certainly never imagined he'd be the cause of it.

"Forget it," he said hurriedly. "Forget it. It's, ah - it's been a rough. I mean, just look at you, Shepard. For future reference, "brightening up" doesn't usually require actual lights under the skin. What the hell happened?" If this session was supposed to melt the ice between them, it was moving at a glacial pace, he thought bitterly, staring at the bottle in his hand. What a fucking mess, the pair of them.

"I owe you an explanation," she admitted reluctantly, after a long exhale. "Fuck, do I know it."

"Then why wait so damn long, Shepard?" he shot back, hating the naked need in his voice.

"Garrus," her tone was apologetic, which was as close to a "sorry" as she'd ever give, "I wanted to, I really did. But they've got the whole Normandy bugged, inch by fucking inch. They've _desecrated_ her with his goddamn Sauron's eye."

"His what?"

"You know, the ever present, all seeing ... ah, nevermind. Fuck it. He's watching us: _all - the - time_ , buddy."

"So? Squish every single one you find and send them back to the Illusive Man. Charge him the postage."

She gave him a wry grin, taking a drag on the cigarette perched between her two fingers. "Trust me, I've thought about it, but it would be stupid." He looked at her quizzically and she rolled her eyes. "Are you trying to punish me by being slow on purpose? _Think about it_. If I smash the bugs, if I trash his cameras, then he knows that _I know_ that he's watching me all the time. And then the son of a bitch will find new, even more sneaky ways to watch me and track me, and I'll have _no clue_ what he knows."

"So ... it's better that he thinks you're as clueless as a salarian at an orgy?" Garrus finished dryly. "The advantage of looking disadvantaged?"

"That's right, Vakarian!" she said, jabbing her cigarette at him. She taunted with a smirk, "Look at that, he can be taught."

"All right," Garrus retorted hotly, determined to push the issue. "All right, it's bugged. So? Would it have killed you to come by? I'm talking about a hello, here, Shepard, not the exchange of state secrets."

The smile slid from her face and she rolled the cigarette between her fingers, watching it. Cautiously, she added, "It, ah, it wasn't just that. I ... I needed some time. And you looked like you could use some too." She looked up at him, warily gauging his reaction.

Shifting uncomfortably, Garrus evaded her comment by accusing, "Time, Shepard? How long have you been - " he stopped himself from saying 'alive', it was too strange on the tongue " - back?" Back. Like she'd just been on an extended vacation.

Taking another drag, she replied, "About a week before I found you, maybe." She looked at him sadly. "I should have come for you sooner, fuck, if I'd have known - but I got a message from Anderson and I had to go see him. I _had_ to. I thought ... I thought I could make him understand, get the Alliance on board, the Council even, maybe ditch these Cerberus assholes." Eyes darkening, she scoffed. "I can't believe I was such goddamn fool. The Council won't even admit that the Reapers exist - can you fucking believe that?"

"Yeah," he confessed, gloomy as unpleasant memories surfaced. "Yeah, I can, Shepard. I had to live through it."

"Shit, yeah."

Silence. He took a final swig from his beer, draining it.

"So," Garrus prodded, not wanting to break the momentum. "What did Anderson and the Alliance say? I mean, their star commander, resurrected from beyond the grave ... did they take away all your posthumous medals when they found out you were colluding with terrorists?"

"Pretty much. The Alliance was about one protocol away from arresting me on the spot," she answered, full of spite. Garrus grimaced, disappointed but not surprised. "Apparently, they told Anderson that they couldn't trust I was even Shepard, that I could be a clone or an A.I., and that I should submit to questioning and examination before they could do anything. Fuck. They've got time to push paper around and process me, but they have no time for a dangerous, high-tech, unknown alien race that's targeting humans? Bastards." Watching her, Garrus realized she was sinking somewhere away from him, losing herself to miserable conclusions.

He took his chances and let his mouth run: "So you shook their hands and politely thanked them for their time, I imagine?"

"Yeah," she agreed with a humourless chuckle, dropping her cigarette butt in her now empty bottle. She seemed focused again as she locked eyes with him. "Yeah, something like that. What about you, Vakarian? Or should I say, _Archangel_? How the hell did you manage to piss off every merc gang in Omega?"

"It wasn't easy," he responded sardonically. "I had to work _really_ hard. But I haven't had enough to drink yet for that conversation, Shepard."

Putting both hands on the table, she pushed herself to stand with genuine amusement glinting in her eyes for the first time since they'd been reunited. "Now _that_ I can fix."

As he watched her walk away from the table to the bar, Garrus took stock of his own feelings. _This_ had been what he had been missing, why the Normandy didn't feel quite right: the Commander side was still there, but this was that other half he'd been hoping would come to surface. He'd worked damned hard to earn the right to see it.

He had been so pleased when he'd been silently accepted into Shepard's inner circle on the SR1; invited to card games while sharing flasks and war stories in equal measure, long after the human crew had gone to bed. Even the way she spoke still shifted like it had before. Off-duty (or after drinking profusely), she slipped back into the rougher vernacular of the common galactic tongue that Garrus often heard from Earthborn humans. Before meeting Shepard, Garrus had considered the speech vulgar and contemptuous; after, tough and exotic.

"Figured we could pick up the pace!" Shepard said with dark cheer, breaking him out of his reverie. She pushed two shot glasses of clear liquid in front of him off a tray, along with the beer. Sitting across from him again with similar drinks for herself, she pulled over a chair from the empty table next to them and put her feet up. "One to get you talking," she said, lifting one of her own shots up, "And one for when you're finished." She lifted the second, grinning roguishly.

Garrus shook his head, refusing the bait. "I've got a better idea. How about _you_ explain to _me_ what happened on Omega? I recall being owed an explanation."

The grin vanished. Reaching over, she took out another cigarette and lit it, studying his face in the dim light. "You _sure_ you wanna know?", she asked, skeptical. _Always a flair for dramatics_ , Garrus thought, half vexed, half endeared. He nodded. "Well, fuck me sideways ... _if you insist_ , Garrus. Guess it'd have to come up eventually." Grim-faced, she took both shots in succession and leaned back. Garrus braced himself.


	4. The Spirit of Zwischenzug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always! This chapter, more than any other so far I feel, really demonstrates where I am imagining this story to go. I am very curious to see how this Shepard goes over - is she cool? Awful? Mean? All of the above?
> 
> Also, as prompted by a reviewer, the title is something I came across while at work. I wanted something that captured the idea of clarity/opaqueness, something becoming apparent that wasn't through matching information. Also I hate titles, so much pressure!
> 
> I hope you enjoy/can forgive me for my vicious take on a beloved scene.

For a man supposedly dedicated to humanity, his eyes were an alien, otherworldly blue. She absorbed as much as she could from this holographic call, trying to learn something of him: the molten star through the window; the black steel office; his soothing, deceptively kind manner of speaking. It was only too fitting, to meet this Cheshire cat as a resolution to the phantasmagoria that had been her last few hours.

_But I don't want to go among mad people_ , Shepard almost mocked, but bit it back, remembering her position. He had ideas, power, resources; she had a pounding migraine and a fuck-ton of questions. Not to mention, there was always the chance they'd put some inhibitor chip in her brain, if they were telling the truth about rebuilding her. One wrong move and they could hit the big, red, self-destruct button.

Shepard was decidedly undecided on whether being a reanimated corpse was a good thing. Though, now that she was here, she was fairly sure she didn't want to die (again?), either. Reactions carefully suppressed, saying as little as possible, she made sure not to reveal any intentions to the Illusive Man. _I can play this game_ , she thought, _and I can win_. She had done it before, after all, a hundred times before, in a different life.

As they spoke, Shepard's mind clicked through calculations, filing away even the smallest detail about this self-declared demigod and his cult. To what extent did they know of that Shepard? The Shepard before Sovereign, before Torfan, before even the Alliance? It hadn't been a part of Lawson's fourth-degree in the shuttle but that meant nothing. The Illusive Man could well know and declined to share the information with Lawson: withholding information from his subordinates to maintain ultimate control of the situation. Or maybe he _had_ told Lawson and specifically instructed her not to ask: they didn't want her to know that they knew, luring her into a false sense of security. Maybe ...

"I need you to understand, we're not operating under any delusions about what could be waiting behind the Omega-4 relay," the Illusive Man said, the conversation winding to a close.

"Yeah, I get it," Shepard replied coolly. Flippantly, she added: "If we're marked to die, we're enough to do our species a goddamn loss."

The Illusive Man smiled an approving, knowing smile. Tapping ashes off the end of his cigarette, he finished for her: "And if you live, the fewer, the greater the share of honour."

Shepard closed the call and swallowed, realizing with disgust that she had enjoyed their repartee.

\

"Archangel, you crazy son of a bitch, you nearly took my arm off," Shepard grumbled by way of greeting. It had been a long day and he had yet to even acknowledge her presence, the cocky asshole.

He didn't respond, still staring down the scope of his sniper rifle over the banister. She edged closer, and when he didn't react adversely, walked up beside him to follow his line of sight. Lining up a shot and breathing heavily, Archangel pulled the trigger.

And missed.

By inches, but a miss none the less. The salarian freelancer turned and fled all the same. Shepard snorted: no wonder her squad had been able to make it past his shots. He hadn't recognized them as friendly; he was just getting sloppy.

"Clever strategy, _Archangel_ ," she sneered, annoyed. "Just great. Why waste good organ donors when you can just scare them away? Is this your famed tactical brilliance in the flesh?"

With a strangled laugh that was oddly familiar, he replied drowsily, "Killing mercs is hard work, you know; especially all by myself." She tensed: it couldn't be ... not him ... he certainly wouldn't have _missed_ the shot... Archangel turned away from the edge and took off helmet.

Garrus Vakarian added solemnly, "I know why you're here. I'm ready."

She sucked in a breath. This was way too coincidental after two disastrous reunions in a row already behind her. She quickly cast a glance at her Cerberus squad standing guard; the last thing she needed was for them to know anymore about her. The playing field of intel was uneven enough already. They were too far to hear with all the gunfire but maintaining composure was paramount.

"What are you doing here?" she asked sharply, keeping her tone professional. "A little target practice? Because you could damn well use some, Vakarian." So many questions pressed against the tip of her tongue but she ground her teeth together in resistance. Later: first she had to get him out of this clusterfuck.

"I always _knew_ it would be you," Garrus mused. His eyes seemed hazy, unfocused, and he smelt like days of unwashed turian sweat and gun smoke. On top of that, he didn't even seem to be fully aware of her presence. This wasn't the Garrus she remembered; but then, she thought ruefully, it had been two years. What she remembered counted for shit.

"Stop babbling like an idiot, Vakarian. What are you on about?" she demanded, taking in the site of his camp. Empty ration bar wrappers, empty boxes of ammo, now-empty sniper rifle; she looked up again, meeting his empty eyes.

"You've come," he rasped, reaching for another thermal clip blindly, fumbling, "To take me with you."

Now Shepard was really rattled. Had the Illusive Man already made contact? Had he already known Archangel's identity and chosen to withhold it, just to stay one step ahead? That conniving bastard! _Not now!_ A voice in her head screamed, funneling her anger into lucidity. _You can use this!_ "Well, that's fucking great: we can skip the pleasantries, then. We need to get your ass to the Normandy: do you have a plan?"

Sitting down, he propped his sniper rifle upright, leaning his weight on it. His visor was working madly, flickering lights and symbols from a language she didn't recognize. "The Normandy?" he asked, confused. Then slowly, a vapid grin spread on his face, "Yes, I like it ... the Normandy will carry me to join the spirits."

Oh dear god, the man was seriously fucked up. Shepard kicked the rifle out from under him: as she expected, his reflexes failed and he hit the ground face-first. "You're," he wheezed, struggling to sit up, "A real asshole of a spirit guide." Then he grinned that stupid grin again. "Hmmm. Just like I remember her. Is she ... tell me, do humans and turian spirits get to meet? Will she ... will you be there?" He raised steely cobalt eyes to hers; the sudden intensity of his gaze made Shepard uncomfortable. Swiftly, she slapped him across face.

"You are off your fucking rocker!" she growled. She shouted back at her squad, "Lawson! Get over here and figure out what the hell is wrong with him!"

Lawson immediately came over and crouched, opening up her omni-tool to perform scans. Whatever Shepard's reservations about the Cerberus operative, Lawson was a much better and much more educated field medic. Hell, she'd raised Shepard from the dead. "Taylor - guard the stairwell! I don't plan on letting a single fucker past me but if the universe inverts and the impossible happens, be ready," she commanded. Picking up Garrus' Mantis rifle, she assumed his former position on the balcony and started picking off as many mercs as she could.

"What's his condition, Lawson? Can we get him out of here?" Shepard demanded, trying to split her attention between scoping mercs and the delirious turian behind her. _Do not fail me, Lawson_ , she willed, surprising herself with her desperation. With an angry whip crack of her arm, she sent a cascade of biotic Shockwaves at a small group over the ledge. _I swear on my fucking life, I will do a hundred times worse to you if you fuck this up._

"Commander - I don't think so. I think we're going to have a problem."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Shepard snapped, taking a moment to risk looking away from balcony. "Taylor, get over here and take over!" Tossing him the gun, she crouched down with Lawson and Garrus. Lawson's face was ashen. "Well, what's wrong with him?" Shepard urged impatiently. "Concussion? Blood loss? Talk to me, Operative!"

Lawson shook her head. "Stims, Commander. More than a few ... A cursory scan shows the level in his blood is way past any safe limits. He's likely been taking them for days." _Fuck. Fuck. Vakarian, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?_ "Commander, he's crashing. His heart rate is dropping fast; he'll probably lose consciousness soon." A better person might have felt compassion or concern; Shepard felt only betrayed by Garrus' lack of judgement.

"For fuck's sake - "

"I suggest we abort the mission, Commander," Lawson interrupted firmly. Shepard narrowed her eyes dangerously. Lawson added, "We can't take him back like this: what are we going to do, carry him over the bridge? You know we can't afford the dead weight." Hating to agree with Lawson, Shepard clenched her fists. The woman was right: it made strategic sense and it was exactly the kind of call Shepard would make. Lawson continued quickly, almost too quickly, "Maybe we could bargain with the mercs: trade Archangel for safe passage across. He's no good to us, anyways, if he's just a glorified stim junkie." Gears were spinning in Shepard's head: if the Illusive Man had known all along that this was Garrus ...

She could hear the venom in Tali's voice when Shepard took away her injured quarian friend for questioning; she could see the betrayal in Anderson's eyes when he saw the Cerberus logo on her armour. It was so clear, so obvious now, that these were _his_ careful machinations. The Illusive Man was trying to fuck with her head; quietly but deliberately, he was capturing her pieces, leaving her at his mercy. Now he'd sent her here to watch him take her rook away.

In a flash of paranoia, she wondered if maybe, somehow, he was watching her right now; congratulating himself for convincing Commander Shepard to abandon Garrus Vakarian under unfortunate, hopeless circumstances. Competitive fire seared through Shepard: the kind that only a worthy adversary could inspire. _It's still early in the game, you son of a bitch, and I'm keeping this one to castle._

A terrible spider of a thought started crawling in her brain, spinning webs.

"Check what he has on him," she ordered, feeling distant from her body. A loud explosion cracked from over the wall and reverberated through the building, making Shepard jump to her feet and shout, "Taylor, what the _fuck?_ "

"Relax, Commander!" he shouted back, not casting her a glance. "Those heavy mechs we hacked are just doing their job!" Another loud explosion, followed by rapid-fire gun shots.

"Wha - Commander, are we going to _loot_ the man? I assure you, Cerberus has more than enough resources, we don't need -" Lawson looked appalled.

"Not for _credits_ , idiot, check for stims!" Still looking unconvinced and unimpressed, Lawson started digging through Garrus' armour. Unperturbed, Garrus limply complied, chin nodding against his chest. Shepard jabbed her gun into Garrus' chest - the aggressive act seemed to catch his attention and for a moment, his gaze was focused and furious again. "We are under _attack_ , you turian shithead!" she screamed at him over the noise. "You think you can just take a nap? _Stay - fucking - AWAKE!_ "

Lawson pulled a small bag out of one pocket, finally. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Do with it, _ma'am_ ," Shepard corrected automatically."What's the upper limit of stims for a twenty-something turian male, Lawson?"

" _Ma'am_ , what are you -"

" _Shut your dick-holster and look it up!"_

Lawson quickly typed something into her omni tool and a holographic wheel began spinning, loading information. She turned back to Garrus and scanned him. "His levels," Lawson said grudgingly, "Are dangerously high but not at toxic levels. Pretty damn close, though, _ma'am_."

"And what's your estimate of the pills in this bag, Operative?"

"Oh god - I don't ... a gram, maybe? Too much, Commander!" Lawson replied, aghast. "You can't seriously be thinking -"

"I _am_. Because it's my job to do the thinking, not yours, Lawson."

"No, don't make me, I can't -" a low moan suddenly interrupted. A sick feeling twisted in Shepard's stomach and she looked at the turian at her feet who had unfortunately regained temporary focus. He pulled himself up so that he was sitting, back against the balcony, eyes closed and breathing heavily. "Figures ..." Garrus groaned, more to himself than them. "Of all the spirits, I'd be ferried by the ones who like to take their sweet time. Aren't I dead enough?" He made a retching cough as if trying to throw up and fell forwards.

The twisting snapped in her gut and she felt her emotions come together like a fan closing, focused and unpitying. Hunkering down, Shepard grabbed Garrus' face and hissed, "You shut the fuck up. You got us into this mess; I'm getting us out. You _will_ do as I _say_! This is not a debate!"

"It wouldn't matter even if he took that much!" Lawson shrieked suddenly, all pretenses of deference gone. "It would take at least half an hour for the stims to kick in - we don't have that kind of time! It's a stupid plan!"

Other people raging at her had always brought about a kind of tranquil ruthlessness in Shepard. Now was no exception. She stood up and replied in an even, reasonable tone, "Then crush the pills into powder; get him to ingest them nasally."

"You -"

"They'll take effect within minutes, if turians respond like most stim-loving organics."

" _You could kill him, Shepard!_ That is too much, too fast!" Shepard was suddenly taken aback; Lawson's concern for Garrus' life seemed very genuine. Maybe she wasn't in on the Illusive Man's plan? Or was she just gunning for an actress of the year award? It seemed unlikely; Lawson was arrogant, supercilious and naively idealistic about Cerberus. She probably saw herself as above emotional manipulation, relying on the sheer power of her intellectual logic to get what she wanted. Stupid girl: she'd just handed Shepard a beautiful opportunity.

Moving uncomfortably close into Lawson's space, Shepard goaded, "Well, would you look at that? She talks like she's tough _shit_ , a real terrorist _badass_ , but she's afraid of getting a little bit of a party started." In mock confusion, she asked, "Weren't you just ready to abandon the stoned bastard, anyways? Because I'm pretty fucking sure you were. If he dies, we bargain with his corpse. " Eyes narrowing, any trace of facetiousness gone, she challenged, "So what's it gonna be, Lawson?" _What are you gonna do, Cerberus bitch? What are you fucking made of?_

Furious but subdued, Lawson said nothing and started crushing the pills with her pistol butt for a peston. Before she could savour her victory of wills or absorb the consequences of what she'd just ordered, a rumble shook the building from below.

Taylor called out, "Commander, something's moving downstairs!" _No shit, Sherlock_ , she thought, overflowing with contempt.

"Lawson, stay here with Archangel! Taylor - with me, downstairs. Let's go spill a little merc blood."

"What if ..." Lawson began to ask, as Shepard and Taylor started towards the stairs. "How do I make him take them if he won't, Commander?"

"You're supposed to be perfect," Shepard answered coldly, not looking over her shoulder, not wanting to risk losing her resolve at the sight of her old comrade's convulsing body. "So _perfect_ a way."

/

Erratic. Demented. Completely, utterly, cheerfully bloodthirsty.

But at least he was functioning at the top of his game, flying high on stims. Her own ammo loaded to incinerate, Shepard felt smug satisfaction as she lit an armoured merc on fire, distracting him for Garrus' clean headshot. Maybe, just maybe, with this crazy, gun-totin' turian watching her back, she could oust the Illusive Man. Take the Normandy back from right under his nose, with brilliance and finesse.

" _SCOPED AND DROPPED!"_ Garrus hollered over the symphony of gunshots. _Just like old times._ Things were getting heated but she felt no fear; in fact, she was grinning like an idiot under her helmet, vicariously sharing Garrus' chemically-induced jubilation.

But then the gunship rose up in the window like a terrible bird of prey, circling them.

"Garrus! NO!" she screamed from her position behind cover. Dread knotting in her stomach, she was painfully aware of the depths of stupidity that stims could push one into. " _Stay down!_ " Casting her a wild grin, Garrus leapt to his feet. _You little fucking -_

"You think _you_ can fuck with _Archangel_?!" he shouted back at the gunship, standing exposed but psychotically confident in his invincibility. The gunship took aim. Almost in slow motion, she saw him jerk against each bullet that hit him. Somewhere, a instinct she had thought long-dead fired up: she wanted to jump out and grab him, drag him into cover. _Don't be stupid!_ That same, commanding voice screamed in her head, preventing her. _Getting shot isn't going to help anyone!_

Then a carefully launched rocket struck him head-on; a piece of Garrus' face ricocheted and landed right by her feet, leaving a trail of inky blue blood that led to a quickly growing lake around the turian's lifeless body. Shepard nearly vomited in her helmet, reeling at the thought that a sober Garrus would never have done anything so stupid, never would have left himself so vulnerable.

Her insides felt hollow; for a split second, she couldn't think, couldn't move -

_The threat - eliminate the threat! Survive, you idiot! He's dead and you're not!_ Between great screams of frustration and cursing as they engaged the gunship, Shepard channeled her horrible, cancerous guilt into lethal efficiency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> "Alice in Wonderland", Carroll. "But I don't want to go among mad people."  
> "Henry V", Shakespeare. "If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor."


	5. Smoking Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very hard to write. I wanted to give the sense of time passing via a montage like sequence, showcase the many sides of a complex renegade Shepard, and also cover the recruitment missions in a way that was a little out of the ordinary. I'm still not 100% happy with it but it's been festering for so long I just wanted it out of my brain and onto the screen. 
> 
> The next update will take longer than usual as I work full time plus take classes, and I'm super behind on homework. Thank you, as always, for reading!

Although it was strange to see her so frequently in such indecently informal settings, Garrus enjoyed their private meetings held away from the Normandy. She had ordered, that first night in the seedy tavern, that under no conditions were they to have these conversations star-side.

"Shepard, let me get this straight," Garrus had reproached after she told her story, mandibles twitching. He was about two drinks past too many at this point (he'd pay for it in a few hours, puking in the Normandy bathrooms, injured face burning from the acidic vomit). "You lied and manipulated your way into a merc army -"

"- never really liked the bastards -"

"- slaughtered hundreds of hapless freelancers -"

"- eh, you wouldn't have liked them anyways -"

"- drugged me into a violent, reckless psychosis against my will -" He waited for the interruption from Shepard. None came. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked at him squarely, braced, battle-ready.

"-and like you said, so magnanimously," he continued carefully. "You 'saved my fucking life'. I - damn, Shepard. I'm grateful. I mean, you're completely nuts, but I wouldn't expect any less from you." Wanting to steer the conversation out of melancholy waters, he said with a forced smile, "Besides, some women find facial scars attractive, you know."

"Ha!" tension evaporated from her shoulders like a wilted plant stretching it's leaves. Relieved, she retorted, "Sure thing, ugly. Krogan women will be swarming you any day now."

Now it was Garrus' turn to laugh. "You think _I'm_ ugly? At least _my_ scars don't suggest I operate on a nuclear fusion core." He tilted his head sideways out of habit and regretted it when his vision swam. Dammit, he'd been sure he was sober - hadn't it only been five drinks? Or six? Did each shot count too? (They did.)

Slickly, she replied, "Yeah? And what exactly do you know of attractive humans, Garrus? Did you ravish an unlucky one on Omega?" Her eyes glittered with a laugh she refused to let loose. But Garrus was nothing if not determined.

"Hmm ... I won't pretend to have a fetish for humans." Emboldened by alcohol, he dared, "But I _do_ know that heads used to turn and follow you when you'd walk into a bar - that's a fairly standard metric of attractiveness."

"Oh yeah?" She asked quirking an eyebrow. Amused, she proposed, "Then enlighten me, Casanova: what happens now?"

"Well, they looked when we walked into this bar," Garrus moved forwards, resting his arms on the table. He composed his face into what he hoped was something dead serious. "But instead of shuffling to cover their boners, they're covering the shit in their pants."

Shepard threw her head back, hooting a delighted laugh. Garrus felt very smug about having applied the right amount of brash to get a reaction from her. " _Goddamn_! You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Resting her own elbows on the table, Shepard craned her neck and appraised, "Shit, you're all right, Garrus." She tipped back the rest of her beer, then asked, almost as an afterthought, "Also, ' _boners'_ , Garrus? The fuck? Thou hast sullied thine turian purity in human dirty talk?"

With a wrenching sensation, suddenly, he wasn't at a bar with Shepard anymore. He was back at the base in Kima district, plopping down on a chaise, accepting a bottled beer from Butler amidst laughter and the giddiness of victory. This was it, then, he supposed, he couldn't avoid the topic any longer. Choking back an awful keen that was starting to rattle his chest, he said, "There was this bawdy human on my squad, back on Omega ..."

\

Shepard always had a reason, Garrus was learning, an agenda that she wished to table every time they stole away from the ship. Maybe this was exactly what she'd been doing all those times her and Wrex would disappear on shore leave from the SR1? If so, it felt gratifying to fill the shoes of the ancient battlemaster, acting as Shepard's consul. Almost as though he'd been promoted for a vacant position in Shepard's social circle; a new citizenship tier in her personal, arcane hierarchy.

Once, she'd asked him to meet her at a swanky cocktail bar owned by a celebrity asari investor. He saw her from across the low-lit bar when he arrived: she'd sprawled herself across a leather sofa grotesquely, leaning against the armrest with one foot dangling over the back and the other on the floor. Combined with her sweatpants and a white t-shirt with one sleeve rolled up to hold her cigarette pack, she was an obscenely plebeian buoy in a sea of high-fashion socialites. It was a miracle, quite frankly, that they'd even let her in. Walking towards her, Garrus took stock of the disapproving glares from people as they flitted past her. Unconcerned, Shepard sipped martinis while absorbed in something on her omni-tool.

"You realize someone's probably going to poison your drink for your audacity, right?" Garrus pointed out, settling down on a couch perpendicular to hers. He, at least, had worn his only decent jacket for the occasion.

Not even looking up from the app she was flipping through, she asked innocently, "What audacity?" She pulled an olive off her drink stick with her teeth.

"The audacity of defiling their trendy, painfully conventional bar with your presence," Garrus answered, pouring himself a drink from the bottle of dextro-scotch she had ready for him. "Bottle service, Shepard? Let me guess. You're just enjoying pissing off pretentious assholes while dropping so many credits they can't kick you out?"

Shepard shrugged. "Ease up, detective. What's the matter, scared of all the evil eyes we're getting? Don't _you_ realize that the fear of appearances is the first sign of impotence?"

"Actually, I'm scared of drawing attention to the fact that we've got our necks in the jaws of a three-headed dog. Shouldn't we be laying low, not looking like trouble?"

Shepard responded with a smirk that was positively wicked. Well, now he'd done it.

Shepard sat up, turned around and spat her olive pit at a wealthy, chatty couple sitting nearby. They jumped to their feet with a yelp, storming off in disgust.

" _Finally_. Thought they'd never leave," she muttered darkly, watching them retreat.

"Charming. Was that really necessary?" Garrus reprimanded before realizing too late: there was a buffer of empty space around them now as people edged away. _Of course._ Points for creativity, he supposed. _But none for class_.

"What I do I do because I like to do!" she declared, settling into a supine position with an armrest as her pillow, fingers laced over her abdomen. Studying him for a moment, she insisted, "Tell me what you think of Massani."

"Tough, battle-hardened, still a hell of a reputation at his age ..." He studied her expression carefully and continued, "... and old. Mostly, old, and not in the impressive krogan or asari way."

She nodded approvingly. "Agreed. You're going to get to know him."

"Me?" Garrus asked, swirling his scotch, draping one arm over the back of his couch. He noticed a trio of stylish turian women at the bar and one of them kept throwing him glances.

"No, the other whipper-snapper turian vigilante I was chatting up," Shepard returned sarcastically but Garrus wasn't paying particular attention. She had a regal crest and silvery plates that caught the light nicely. Enticingly, even. "Let's be real, Garrus; Massani is just some old washed up merc who pretends like he's in it for the cash but really, he just wants to feel relevant again. Make him feel useful; important, you know?" She paused and Garrus made a vague hum of affirmation. "And maybe he can teach you to pick up, instead of ogling those bitches like a lost pyjak."

Garrus choked on his drink but managed, "I wasn't - I ... Can't _you_ play pupil to Massani?"

She grinned at him. "Fuck, trust me, buddy, I do. But you can't make me bear this burden alone." Garrus nodded, downing his drink despite his burning throat. She laughed and went back to her omni-tool. Waving a dismissive hand, she said, "Good. Now I beseech you to go get your bony ass laid. And for fuck's sake, take the bottle with you; it'll impress them."

Back on the Normandy, Garrus would take to popping into Zaeed's quarters in the cargo hold. As Shepard predicted, the veteran was eager to regale Garrus with parables of adventure and danger. A poisonous thought started seeping in his head as he would listen: did Shepard secretly look at _everyone_ as disdainfully as she had of Zaeed?

\

Another time, they'd gone out for breakfast at a tacky diner owned by a quarian who'd "left" the fleet about three decades ago. The fact that Garrus had to gnash his teeth menacingly to persuade the owner to stop groping his waitresses suggested his departure hadn't been entirely voluntary.

Sitting across from him with the hood of her baggy black sweater up, Shepard downed cup after cup of black coffee, watching the rain through grimy windows. One of her eyes was forcibly shut, swollen and blackening almost the entire upper right quadrant of her face. Coupled with her worsening scars, she was a fairly frightening sight to behold, even for Garrus. Absent-mindedly, Shepard touched the injured skin and winced, ruining her fearsome image.

"Good, you deserve that," Garrus snapped. Exasperated, Garrus noticed she hadn't touched the plate of squiggly eggs. He wasn't feeling particularly hungry either, having recently decided on his own to double the dosage of his meds. It had knocked him out last night but at least he'd finally gotten some sleep, even if his stomach churned now.

"Sneaking around in the early hours," he continued, mandibles flaring, "Unleashing genetically enhanced krogans on the ship ... what the hell were you thinking, Shepard?" _You probably would have noticed if you hadn't gotten blackout loaded._ He forced down food to distract himself from that path of thinking. Dangerous, treacherous alleys of thinking.

Shifting only her eyes to him, she warned, "Careful, Vakarian. I don't like being second-guessed." She tried to glare but she hissed in pain from the facial movement. Sulky now, she continued, "I don't _sneak_ anywhere; it's my ship, and I go as I please."

Untroubled, Garrus replied dryly, "If getting decked in the face pleases you too, I'd be happy to oblige in the future."

" _Fuck off_ , Vakarian, I know what I'm doing. It's worth it."

"And if he rebels? Goes wild on us?"

"Shit, relax, princess, he won't," she retorted testily. She picked up her fork and pierced the center of her eggs, watching the yellow fluid leak across her plate. Scrunching her nose, she put the fork back down and reached for her mug again."He respects strength. And regardless of how bad you think it looks, I came out on top. He'll abide. You worry about our Dr. Griffin."

"Our who?"

"The thief, Garrus. Talk hacking and tech shit and if that doesn't work, let her grind your gears as an ex-cop - it'll amuse her and get her to like you, maybe."

"Alright, I'll accept on one condition," Garrus smoothed over. She looked up, alert, ready to negotiate. With a sneer not unlike her own, he coaxed, "You _must_ tell me your secret to _indomitable strength_ while subsisting entirely off of alcohol, caffeine and cigarettes."

She huffed but finally dug into her plate, chewing her food with annoyance. Even though he knew she didn't understand turian subharmonics, he graciously suppressed his victorious hum anyways.

\

"You _like_ Lawson?" Garrus repeated in disbelief, putting his tankard down. They had met in Garrus' preferred type of bar this time; a cosy, unpretentious pub with a cheerful crackling fireplace, well-crafted ale and clean, dark wood tables.

Shepard hugged her body and shrugged. She seemed strange today: agreeable, reserved, distracted. "Sure," she replied. "She knows her shit, can hit a mech's head off with biotics from a mile away, and she's clear where her loyalties lie. I've come to respect that."

"Then why keep treating her like something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of your boot?"

She answered tonelessly, "I have to, Garrus. It's what _he_ would expect me to do."

"I was under the impression that the Illusive Man wanted you to get along with his crew."

Shepard shook her head and Garrus noticed she moved to touch her middle finger, like she was expecting something to be there but wasn't. "No ..." She sighed, weary. He wondered when she'd last slept a full night. "Fuck, Garrus, do I have to spell everything out for you? The Illusive Man doesn't expect me to get along with Cerberus. In fact, he probably anticipated I'd have a problem with them, and he probably even anticipated that I'd be plotting to thwart him. Fuck, Garrus, I could be playing right into his hand!"

Frowning, she continued, "There's no way he'd expect me to get along with Lawson, if they did their research. She's a tough bitch, I'm a tough bitch, that would be the natural response. That's why he gave me Jacob."

From the way she was talking, Garrus sensed she'd been inspecting, analyzing this thought a hundred times before harvesting it. She ranted, "Jacob's a mediocre biotic at best. He totally fucked up when we went to get Jack - he accidentally put _me_ in a Lift." Garrus grimaced, having heard this story upon Shepard's return from the disastrous prisoner exchange. "So I've been thinking ... this is Cerberus, for fuck's sake, they have to have better talent than this guy. So why give him to me, if I'm such a big fucking deal?"

With more gusto than earlier, she concluded, "Because the Illusive Man _wants_ me to like Jacob! He gives me this ex-Alliance dirt bag who talks shit behind Cerberus' back, thinking that it'll win me over, give me someone to trust ..." Shepard scoffed, ducking her head to take a large gulp from her tankard.

"You don't trust Jacob?" Garrus inquired with interest. So she treated Jacob, whom she despised, fairly well, but treated Miranda, whom she vaguely respected, very poorly - all as part of some elaborate political maneuvering? This seemed absurdly circular to Garrus: she was staying one step ahead of the Illusive Man by ... doing exactly what the Illusive Man wanted?

"Are you kidding?" she asked, now the one in disbelief. "How can anyone trust a guy like that? If you don't like an organization you work for, then fucking leave! Don't just hang out and bad-talk them when you think no one's looking, you scummy coward."

"What if he's doing it on purpose?" Garrus indulged her, drumming his talons on the tabletop. "Trying to look like your friend to get past your defenses, spying on you for the Illusive Man?" She nodded fervently.

"Good, Vakarian!" she breathed. "You're getting it now. I thought about that; it's a possibility and if he is, well, fuck, kudos to him, the clever bastard. So he's a coward or a spy - "

"- neither of which inspires trust. So what do we do with him?"

"We need to find a way to test him," she answered thoughtfully, staring into her drink. "We need to rattle him; find something that'll push him out of his safe zone and make him react on instinct. And it's not just him."

"The whole crew," Garrus felt uneasy. "You want to look for ways to push their buttons."

"We need to be looking for favours we can do for them, Garrus. Little ways to win their trust and loyalty, keep them in our debt. Show them that we're a better bet than the Illusive Man." It was like there had been circuits in his brain sparking for some time and suddenly she'd laid the connector between them.

"You mean ..." Garrus inhaled and went right for it, bluntly: "... you mean like you did to Liara, and Tali and the others on the SR1. Like ... like you did to me."

_That_ brought her attention to head. Jerking her eyes up to meet his, she stared him down intensely. He was ready: braced for outrage, denial or even shame.

Instead, a slow smile spread on her face that possessed not a sliver of kindness.

"Yes," she assured him, quiet and challenging, still smiling with aggravating self-assuredness. " _Exactly_ like I did to you." There was an unspoken question that she allowed to hang between them. She sat back in her seat, smug, waiting.

Hateful energy pulsed through him but it was directionless and volatile. It felt almost sacrilegious for her to taint his memories of the SR1 or even of her. Shepard had been ... he thought she was _so_... and he had been so sure back then! That was when things were good, when they were _right_ ...

"So this is the root of the infamous' Commander Shepard's power, then?" he spat, wounded and disoriented. "Her willingness to measure everyone against her cold utilitarian standards, discarding the weak and manipulating the strong?" Another thought started seeding, growing rotten fruit and twisted branches. If he had applied that kind of calculus to the Traitor, could he have caught it earlier? Had he missed this lesson in leadership? The idea of it terrified him, like he was failing all over again.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Vakarian," she ordered, calm with the threat of lightning looming. "I thought you could fucking handle this; I thought Terminus would've toughened you up."

Incensed, he shot back, "You mean you thought I wouldn't notice, so that you and the Illusive Man could keep duelling circles around each other while I do your dirty work."

"Stop being a little bitch!" she hissed, rubbing her forehead with one hand in frustration. "This is just how the world works! Why do you think I spent so much time shooting the shit with the crew on the old Normandy? What, did you think it was because I'm some kind of heroic leader, vulnerable and brave, looking to make friends and a shoulder to cry on?"

"Cry? No, Shepard, that requires a heart and I doubt even Cerberus could install one for you."

Her smile became strained and she whispered, full of simpering spite, "Oh, _right_ , you're _Archangel_ , vigilante with a heart of gold. Tell me something, _Archangel_ , is that how you ran your little playground group of do-gooders? Did you write dutiful letters of _honour_ and _courage_ to their widows -"

The table flipped; there was shattering glass and screaming as people scrambled to leave. Garrus wasn't even aware that he had done it, he just knew that he was on his feet, every predator instinct in him flared and firing through him. He hadn't felt anything this intense since he'd arrived back at the headquarters on Omega, absorbing the sight of his squad's bodies.

" _Watch your mouth_!" he roared and balled his fists, resisting the urge to strike that horrible, satisfied smirk right off her face. Still in her chair, Shepard propped one foot up on the opposite knee, foot dangling, sipping the drink that she'd managed to grab just before the table went flying. If it hadn't been for his visor picking up her accelerated heart rate and increasing adrenaline levels, he wouldn't have known that she even remotely nervous.

"You let your emotions get in the way of your better judgement," she patronized, glaring up at him. "I'm doing you a favour. You need to learn to keep your shit together _at - all - times._ If you let the wrong people find your weaknesses, they will stick a fucking knife in, and _twist_."

"You mean people like _you_."

"Yes, that is precisely what I mean."

He closed the distance between them and leaned down, resting one hand on each of the armrests of her chair. Their faces were centimeters apart. She didn't flinch but her pulse was pounding and there were fine beads of sweat on her forehead. _Good._ It was as though all of his loathing had come to boil, bubbles pushing against one another, and she was the fire below, nourishing it.

"And _you_ , Shepard? Do you have weaknesses? Or should I just stick a knife in and twist ... see what happens?"

"If you have to ask, then you've already lost."

He threw her chair backwards and she rolled but didn't strike back, which only infuriated him further. He wanted her to hit him, he wanted to hit something, anything at all, and feel the clarity of physical pain.

Suddenly he wished she had never come back, never returned to destroy his illusion of her. Never came back to save him. He could have died in a blaze of glory, joined his squad somewhere on the other side, but _she_ had dragged him into a new kind of hell of her own personal making. It was so typically selfish of her, so callous, so superior. He noticed her shift her weight while sitting on the floor, reaching into her pocket. Before she could fish out her cigarettes, Garrus pounced so he was on top of her, grabbing her wrist.

"No! You don't get to pull that cavalier crap with me!" he snarled. In a low voice, he growled, "This is all just some damn game to you, isn't it? Do you have _any_ respect for me at all?" There was a long pause, him straddling her, holding her arm; her sprawled on the floor under him, breathing hard, searching his eyes.

Then she touched his scars with her other hand.

He was so startled by the sensation that he snatched that wrist too, effectively immobilizing her arms and killing the gentle moment as quickly as it had sprung up. "Garrus, shit," she seethed. "Think about what you're saying. Think! Does that even make sense? Why would I be confiding all this in you if I didn't respect you: fuck, don't you think I would have anticipated that you'd figure out I was using you? And even if I was, doesn't it make _strategic_ sense to keep your happiness in mind, _especially_ if I'm manipulating you into watch my back?"

A dangerous rumble left his chest and he started tightening his grip. "That's not an answer." She winced but had the dignity to not struggle. " _Try again_!" He wondered if he could break her wrists, even with her bone enhancements and skin weaves. A little tighter, then.

"What - ow, Garrus! Holy shit - you're losing it! You realize how fucked up this is, right? How can this be an honest heart-to-heart if you're manhandling me?"

"Not falling for it, Shepard! Spit it out!" Petty, mean Shepard. It would be so satisfying to hear her bones crunch under his talons. A little tighter, then.

"Argh! I'm trying, you psychotic son of a bitch!" She heaved a great sigh. "Shit, Garrus, you're like my Little John, okay? I'm not out to get you, honest. You're the only one that ... okay, I said some fucked up stuff about your squad, I own that. But I meant what I said, Garrus. You have to get a hold of yourself; I need to know I can rely on you. Because at the end of the day, it doesn't bloody well matter what I think of you - we have a job to do, and we're all fucked if we fail."

Freezing over, she commanded icily, "Now, let me enjoy my goddamn smoke or just fucking slash me already." For emphasis, she intentionally wrung her arms in his pincer-grip so that his talons left deep scratches. He released her wrists like he'd been scalded at the sight of bright red blood running down her arms.

Blind rage evaporating, he buried his face in his talons, head pounding. _You're losing it._ He wasn't even sure what had happened or why; the last few minutes blurred and he felt unsteady. He rolled off of her and laid flat on his back, forcing himself to breathe more slowly.

Her logic was sound: heartless and brutal, but sound. _So much for old times._ This time, he had an insider's view on her machinations, been invited to partake in the methods behind her madness, and had reacted like a temperamental child learning that sprites and magic weren't real. _You're losing it and you'll lose the only friend you have left if you keep it up._

Shepard was already smoking, resting her elbows on her bent knees, looking for all the world like she'd intended to be seated on the floor in a wreckage of furniture. Garrus felt a rush of affection for her, for that same careful control that had lit his fuse just moments ago.

He needed to say something. Anything. "Damn, Shepard," he observed, because they were the first words to not die in his throat. "Is that an Illium Magnum?"

She gave him a sidelong look. "Didn't take you for a cigar man."

Garrus propped himself up on his elbows and Shepard held out the fat brown roll without looking at him. He accepted the offer, taking a few puffs before handing it back. They sat on the ground like that for some time after, saying nothing, passing the cigar between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The references:
> 
> "The Culprit Fay", Drake. "Thou has sullied thine elfin purity in the glance of a mortal maiden's eyes."  
> "Crime and Punishment", Dostoyevsky. "The fear of appearances is the first sign of impotence."  
> "A Clockwork Orange", Burgess. "What I do I do because I like to do!"  
> "Invisble Man", Ellison. "Dr. Griffin" is the main character in the story about a man who discovers invisibility.  
> "Robin Hood". "Little John" being Robin Hood's second-in-command of the Merry Men.


	6. Ghosts on the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your reading and comments and kudos are amazing. It's such a motivation when I'm at a writer's block, so I thank you! I think this chapter will answer a lot of questions about Shepard's opinions of relationships in general, so I'm curious to see what you think. It's also the first chapter to really diverge a bit from the canon and does justice to the "much colder milky way" part of the summary. This galaxy is a mean place.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Some mentions of sexual assault. Nothing too graphic, I think, but it's there. If it's an issue, leave a note, maybe, and I could post a "clean" version or something? Not sure if it's necessary but I want to accommodate/not be an insensitive asshole.

Commander Shepard was dreadfully bored. This was not new, or unexpected; for as long as Shepard could remember she had been largely bored by a lifestyle that, by all accounts, should have been thrilling. She’d done her rounds, caught up on correspondence, cleaned her weapons, finished her reports on all the recruitment dossiers, got some reading in and even tried on different combinations of armour. Still bored.

Her current preferred entertainment was busy brooding in the Forward Battery. They hadn’t really spoken since his paroxysm at the pub; not that they chatted very much while star-side anyways, but Garrus had taken one look at her bruised and scabbing wrists the next day and fled mess hall. Shepard almost went after him -- it had been an alarming but ultimately useful insight into his psyche, so she considered it a positive encounter -- then changed her mind. If she needed to make distasteful demands from him later, letting Garrus simmer in guilt now could make said demands more palatable.

That was the same reason she couldn’t invite Joker out yet. To her own surprise, she’d come to enjoy the pilot’s company on the SR1; he was one of the few that continually amused her. But since her return, he’d been strained and awkward during conversations. When she realized his tone and body language indicated some deep-seated angst over the first Normandy, she’d backed off. Let him stew on that for a while, too, until it became an inconvenience for her.

For the hundredth time since returning, Shepard missed the aloof, shrewd company of Urdnot Wrex. _He_ wouldn’t have turned his nose up when she suggested securing the crew’s loyalty via the careful distribution of favours. Wrex would have just told her that threatening them would be a hell of alot faster before shamelessly demanding favours of his own. Shepard approved wholeheartedly of such nimbleness; he embodied the virtues of being a fox to avoid snares and a lion to scare off wolves.

Putting her feet up on her desk, Shepard started scrolling through her omni-tool contacts. If she couldn’t be entertained, she could at least put some time in with someone that needed to be worked on. Jack? Shepard frowned. She was still undecided if she should try and play nice with Jack or rule with an iron fist, so getting friendly with her was out of the question until further notice. Mordin? Intelligent and blunt, two things Shepard appreciated, but too self-absorbed in his own scientific genius to ever leave his lab. Grunt? Well, someone had to teach that boy to drink before he ended up shitfaced in a bar somewhere on his own. Sadly though, she got a ping from her Chambers just then, informing her that the Illusive Man had news. _Ho ho ho, Grunt, to the bottle we do not go._

\

Which was precisely how they ended up on Horizon, gasping for breath, cursing EDI for having taken her sweet time in calibrating the GARDIAN towers. Lawson was sitting on the edge of the platform, holding medi-gel against a wounded calf. Garrus was bent over on the ground, clearing a jam out of his assault rifle that had damn near cost him dearly. Lucky for him, Shepard had Charged and smashed the group of Collector husks away from him just in time.

“We’re good to go. Joker, get us off --” Shepard stopped. Maybe it was her augmented hearing playing tricks on her but she swore she heard footsteps. Garrus looked up, too; so it wasn’t just her, then. The building in front of them was large but familiar: an evacuation bunker, maybe? A make-shift military base? “Lawson, up! Both of you, rally round.” Taking point, Shepard raised her submachine gun and began moving towards the door. The digital red lock began swirling, flickered green and hissed open.

Out stepped a firing squad of Alliance patrollers. “Hands up!” One of them ordered, guns drawn.

“So glad you could join us,” Shepard greeted dryly, refusing to comply. But then another figure walked out and Shepard clamped her mouth shut.

“Shepard,” Kaidan Alenko was looking at her with naked affection on his face. Did the Illusive Man plan on just running her through an entire gauntlet of her old squad? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just organize a “look who’s back!” party and invite everyone? This was getting fucking ridiculous.

“We moved as many as civilians as we could to safety,” he explained. Kaidan turned to the men flanking him and urged, “Put your guns down, for Christ’s sake, you’re in the presence of a legend.”

“You mean a ghost, sir,” one of them replied to murmurs of agreement and Kaiden held up a hand to silence them. Shepard quirked an eyebrow at this show of disrespect.

“Come on, it’s me,” he pleaded. “Lower your weapon. I just want to talk.” Frowning, Shepard’s eyes darted across the environment. Four goons and one sentinel biotic: they could out-react these guys if need be. She acquiesced and saw her squad do the same out of the corner of her eye. Kaidan’s gaze hadn’t left her face and he moved in, putting his hands on either arm, studying her. Shepard hoped her eyes projected sadness and relief at seeing him. If she could play nice and wrap this up quickly, they’d be out of here in no time, and she could analyze this happenstance later.

“Kaidan,” she managed to say with adequate gentleness, hoping she sounded as lovesick as he looked. “It’s been too long.” Just play his heart strings till he was singing a mournful goodbye. Thankfully, he didn’t know that before the SR1 had gone down, Shepard had been readying herself for a unpleasant but firm, “you’re way more invested in this than me” slash "look, stealing the Normandy was a stressful time" conversation. The next day she’d, well, _died_ , so out of the frying pan kind of luck for her, she supposed. 

Kaidan wrapped his arms around her, burying his face into her neck. Hesitating briefly, Shepard was about to hug him back when suddenly he shoved both to them ground, twisting her onto her stomach. Somehow, there were cuffs on her wrists, a knee in the small of her back and a gun barrel to her helmet before she could blink. Her face dug painfully into her front visor guard and she tasted grass.

“Kaidan, what the --!” Shepard started to say.

“Not a word from you!” Kaidan ordered, pressing the the gun barrel closer. She doubted he had the guts to go through with it but she also never would have believed him capable of such deception either. Better to not take chances and risk brain damage until she’d learned more.

“Let her go!” Garrus exclaimed, alarmed. “Alenko, what the hell are you doing?” She heard the mechanical beeps of weapons being raised and aimed.

“What am _I_ doing? You’re working with human supremacist terrorist group under an imposter. How could you do this, Garrus? What would Shepard think?” Here Kaidan was, with all the actual power, and he was letting Garrus get under his skin. Maybe not so changed after all.

“Why don’t we ask her?” Garrus asked, feigning surprise. Unable to make snide comments herself, Shepard felt a surge of appreciation for Garrus picking up the slack. “Look, I even found her for you, she seems to have slipped under your gun. An unhappy mistake, I’m sure.”

“This isn’t funny, Garrus. What makes you think it’s really her?” Kaidan asked, although sounding less authoritative now.

“Think? I _know_ , Alenko. It’s that simple,” Garrus answered coldly. Despite her compromised position, Shepard found this all fascinating. This was not a tactical disagreement between old squadmates from two years ago; this tasted like a bitter argument amongst close friends.

“Look at you, Garrus,” Kaidan tried to soothe, ever the people-pleaser. “I know you’ve had it rough; you were a wreck the last time I saw you, remember? I’m worried about you. What if she’s manipulating you? What if Cerberus is manipulating her, using the threat of the Reapers?”

“Look at _you_ , Alenko! An Alliance stooge, so focused on Cerberus that you’re not even looking at what’s in front of you!” Garrus rejoined. “Get that gun away from her! If it wasn’t for Shepard --” He stopped suddenly. Shepard saw boots on the ground out of the corner of her eye; combat boots, and lots of them. Shit. How many were in that base? How many could they take?

“If you don’t put your guns down now, I can’t promise she won’t get shot,” Kaidan commanded. The presence of more men seem to put some iron in his spine. With relief, she heard the clattering of weapons being dropped and the other two being forced to their knees.

“And you,” Kaidan ordered, pushing the gun to Shepard’s neck, where she could feel it more. “I don’t know who or what you are, but I won’t let you deface the memory of Commander Shepard. Now get up.” Shepard felt herself being jerked to her feet and looked around to see her squad in cuffs. Garrus shot her one look -- do we try and take these guys now? -- and Shepard gave the smallest shake of her head.

“You’re all under arrest for collaborating with known terrorist groups, suspicion of kidnapping and the use of military-grade firearms on an Alliance-occupied colony world without authorization.” With a hard shove from a shotgun, Shepard was pushed to walk and heard the others follow suit, similarly surrounded.

Rage fuelled through Shepard but it was Garrus who asked sardonically, “Oh? Was that why you boys were hiding under your bunks while we chased off the Collectors? Waiting for authorization, were you?” There was a loud thud and Garrus grunted in pain and stumbled, melting Shepard’s smirk into a grimace.

Maybe he didn't know it, but Alenko had played her exactly as she’d been trying to play him, the clever little bugger. Shepard was almost impressed.

\

The cell was cold and dark; old-fashioned, too, with metal bars separating them from a small room with a desk with a bulky datapad. There was no one in that half of the room, the heavy door slammed shut after they’d shoved the three in. Amateur mistake, leaving them alone to conspire, Shepard analyzed. What kind of men were these and what other mistakes would they make? Shepard sat silently on the cell bench, cuffed hands behind her, evaluating.

“Maybe I just can’t keep up with your strategizing,” Garrus said through gritted teeth, stretching his hands inside his cuffs. At least he and Lawson had been cuffed in the front, unlike Shepard. Dark blue blood trickled down his neck from a nasty bump they’d given him. “But rejecting that Spectre offer is looking pretty stupid now, hmm?” She had no reply: he was painfully, humiliatingly right. A rare emotional pothole in her carefully paved calculations. So instead she countered,

“I don’t want to hear another fucking word from you unless it involves getting us out of this shithole.”

Garrus nodded warily from where he stood, leaning against the wall. “It’s not exactly high tech, but the bars are probably still wired to alert them if we try cutting through,” he offered. “Could we wirelessly de-activate the alarms?”

Lawson looked up from where she sat on the ground; she’d managed to twist her wrists awkwardly to key into her omni-tool. “I already checked: the signal from the bars are coded to trigger an alarm at any decryption attempts. I’ve managed to take out the cameras but they’re on an unsecured frequency, the sloppy idiots.”

“I saw them take our weapons to a room three doors to the left of this one,” Garrus added. “If we trip anything, we’ll be without firepower other than two biotics and my ... talons.” Garrus’ eye flicked to her wrists guiltily and Shepard tried not to roll her eyes. _Fucking turians_ , she judged. _Their bodies are the perfect weapon and their stupid code of honour won’t even let them enjoy it_. Then understanding came to her, condensing out of the fog of annoyance in her brain.

She focused on Garrus and said, “Listen, a lot of them probably know or heard about some old fart who died in the First Contact War and judging by the way they’ve been roughing you around, they hold you personally accountable.” She paused, considering. “Honestly, a few of them are probably bigoted and cocky enough to take you out back and just execute you.”

“Is this typical Alliance hospitality?” Garrus asked, humming in disgust.

“I’m guessing these are colonial reservists or a roaming patrol platoon: either way, local fucking heroes that get away with all kinds of nasty deeds by being buddies with the ranking officer’s dad’s kids, too far-flung for the brass to give a fuck. They’ll want a rise out of you.” Garrus stiffened proudly.

“Wrong move, Garrus,” Shepard warned. “That attitude will just put a bullet in your head faster. _Give them the rise they want._ None of this turian stoney-faced honour bullshit; feed their amusement, make yourself a toy worth kicking around. It’ll buy you some time to figure out how to escape.”

“This is the Alliance, then?” Lawson interjected, dead serious. “This is the organization you hold so dear, Shepard?”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll be happy to tell you how Cerberus is a group of elitist traitors while they’re running a train on you,” Shepard replied harshly. Lawson looked ill and Garrus cursed under his breath. Vexed at their reaction, she added, “What the fuck do you expect? We have to think like them if we want to stay ahead!”

“So like a bunch of unsophisticated, self-aggrandizing assholes who think that being cannon fodder means they’re entitled to whatever and whoever they want?” Lawson lashed out, obviously hoping to wound Shepard’s patriotism. (Had such a thing existed, of course.)

“Exactly. To them, you’re not a person, you’re just the personification of an ambiguous ‘bad guy’ that’s somehow responsible for eating babies and killing puppies. So yeah, they’re gonna fucking hurt you any way they can. Just play along until you can make your move.”

“I will _not_ ,” Lawson disagreed angrily, cheeks flushed. “They can be animals but I won’t sink to their level of depravity. It might surprise you to know that this is hardly the first time I’ve been in danger: I’ll deal with it.”

Shepard shrugged. “Fine, fight to the death for your virtue and chastity, for fuck’s sake. If you escape, both of you, head back to the emergency extraction coordinates for a rendezvous.” Before they could protest she added, “Between the execution squad and the gang-rapists, you’re going to be outrunning a fuck-ton of pissed off thugs. Kaidan will want to deal with me personally; I can handle him. Whoever gets to extraction first, contact the Normandy and request back-up.”

“Shepard, given this is the Alliance ... is this a non-lethal engagement?” Garrus asked softly.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” Shepard seethed, feeling the familiar sensation of ice pouring through her veins. “Kill every bastard that gets in your way, and then kill a couple more for good measure. Let’s make sure the Alliance understands who they’re dealing with.”

“Even if it’s Alenko?” he asked, more quietly still. 

She didn’t have the chance to answer, as the door lock whirred and the man in question entered with two soldiers, guns drawn.

“On your feet,” Kaidan ordered, hard eyes on Shepard. “You’re coming with me.” Shepard was still smarting from having her own manipulations backfire on her; getting them into this mess. But she could work with this, outmaneuvering him for her revenge. _My name is Jay Shepard, you killed my father, prepare to die._

\

They took her up two flights of narrow stairs, surrounded and at gunpoint. Shepard’s mind plotted through different scripts for what was to come. Would he just pretend to care for her because he thought she was crazy about him? Or did he know that she was feigning infatuation in the hopes of tricking him, and as a result would pretend to be attracted while secretly analyzing her motives, and it would be _she_ who was one step behind?

She recalled that he had fallen for her rough edges; rather, fallen for trying to refine and soften them. It had been cute at first; flattering, even, but quickly grew dull when she realized he loved the idea of saving her more than relishing her true nature. _You will always be fond of me_ , she remembered, suddenly glum. _I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit._ Sometimes, it still amazed her, how words written hundreds upon hundreds of years ago could still so aptly apply to her 22nd century life. It was like being in a secret club with long dead writers, where she and they alone understood the true unchanging core of humanity. The difference, she supposed, was that they simply documented their knowledge, while Shepard unabashedly exploited it.

They reached what looked like the CO’s quarters. The guards pushed her onto a wooden chair, tied her arms behind her and then left at Alenko’s command. The whole time, Shepard remained quiet, trying to read an increasingly frazzled Alenko. Was he still the bright-eyed man she’d felt a fleeting attraction for, with his nervous smile and the sensitive way he touched her? What was it going to be, now? Should she be gentle and doe-eyed? Coy and mischievous? Furious passion? Kaidan sat down on the bed across from her and buried his face in his hands, warring with himself.

“I can’t believe ... Commander Shepard died,” he declared, piercing eyes looking up. “I saw it happen; I saw her body from the windows of my escape pod.” His face hardened. “You might be wearing a patchwork imitation of her face but Commander Shepard would never have worked for Cerberus. No matter what else, she was an Alliance soldier, like me.” She kept a steady, longing gaze on him. _People always talk into silences if you wait long enough._

Why had Kaidan, of all people, been exactly where she would be? She was beginning to doubt it was the Illusive Man. He might have been a hell of a ventriloquist but it didn’t make sense for him to get his own squad (especially Lawson, his preferred dummy) arrested while he was eagerly awaiting a debrief. Who would have a motivation to orchestrate this touching reunion?

Wistfully, he continued, “There were rumours you were back: except in league with Cerberus. I couldn’t believe it but ... here you are with that logo on your chest. I hate that I had to deceive you but what am I supposed to think? That Cerberus created a monstrosity in the image of the woman I loved for their own nefarious purposes, or that she really is back and willfully working for them?” There it was, her opening. She’d have to take a chance sooner or later.

In a hoarse, vulnerable voice, she held his gaze and breathed, “I’ve missed you.” Closing her eyes and exhaling with a show of great effort, she went on, “God, Kaidan, I’ve missed you _so_ much.” She ducked her head, the picture of humility. _Here, kitty, kitty. You know you fucking want it._

“Jesus, Jay,” he replied, stricken, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. She could almost feel his resolve cracking under the weight of her carefully applied emotional pressure. “How can I believe that you’re back from the dead? Is that even possible?”

“Fuck, Kaidan, I don’t know ... I woke up in a hailstorm of bullets, barely surviving just to be told that my corpse had been bought and sold; I didn’t know what to do. I tried to come to the Alliance for help but ... I was lost. Maybe ... damn, maybe it’s where I belong. I was always a fuck-up, you know that,” she finished with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. Hunching her shoulders and tilting her head away in shame, she tried to look like a shattered hero, looming with dark secrets. Kaidan got up and moved to her, gently putting his hand under her chin to tilt her gaze back up.

“Jay, I knew you; I ... I still know you, better than anyone, and you were never a fuck-up,” Kaidan placated, face softening at her admission. “I had no idea ... but you have to understand, that sounds crazy. How could anyone bring back the dead? What did they do to you?” he asked, stroking one of her scars. Reign him in, carefully, slowly; she couldn’t let him have it all too fast. She jerked her head away, avoiding contact.

“Don’t! I can’t even look at myself in a mirror,” she exclaimed. Which was wholly untrue; after Garrus’ joke, Shepard _had_ started noticing the way crowds parted for her now. Between her and the scarred turian, people flat out scrambled to make room. Another reason to seek out his company. “I don’t need you reminding me as well. I’m not asking you to find me beautiful --” she waited for him to interrupt and he took the bait, murmuring,

“You _are_ beautiful, Jay Shepard.” Gently touching her face again, he continued, “That’s not what I meant. I just didn’t think I’d find you looking like this, I’m sorry.” So he _had_ been expecting to see her. 

“I’ve been looking for you, any sign at all. If you heard the rumours, why didn’t you try and contact me? Where have you been?” Shepard asked with the indignance of a spurned lover, pulling away from his touch again.

“I wanted to,” he assured her, on the defensive now. “But the Alliance barred all unofficial contact with you, after your meeting. I wasn’t even sure you were alive; if it wasn’t for the reports of you and Cerberus being involved with these mass kidnappings, I wouldn’t even have gotten to see you today.” _Reports?_ Shepard thought quizzically. So the Alliance knew and had sent a team here to investigate _her_ , not the Collectors. That meant someone close to Shepard weighed in, sending Kaidan to lower her guard ... _of course_.

“Anderson sent -- let you come visit me? Why?” she whispered, miraculously keeping her cool. Kaidan nodded, now absently running fingers through her hair. _Anderson?_ That two-timing, manipulative, untrustworthy son of a bitch! This was the second time Shepard felt something break inside of her because of that man, spilling hate like a toxic waste dump in her body. He was -- _had been_ \-- one of a very small handful of people Shepard had ever considered a friend. Why was he trying to fuck with her now? Why was everyone trying to punish for having the audacity of being _alive_?

Then Kaidan crouched down, pressing his lips against hers, tongue seeking entry into her mouth. Tensing with instant dislike, she let him in anyways, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth. With a soft moan, his kiss became more hungry and he cupped her face in his hands, pushing harder. Pulling away, his hands slipped to rest on top of her thighs and he said, eyes blazing with passion, “He must have known I couldn’t stay away.” She felt her insides petrify with scorn. If she could just get him to turn his back, for a moment, she could be free.

“You remember that night before Ilos?” she asked, letting a coy smirk touch her lips, a flimsy lid on her boiling sense of betrayal. He chuckled and began kissing her again in affirmation, running his tongue delicately along her lower lip. Shepard pulled away just enough so she could continue, self-conscious and bashful, “This is going to sound dumb but ... fuck, this whole time I’ve been back, I’d look up in the sky and think about how far away you were from me, and wonder if you were looking up too, thinking of me. Pretty corny, huh?”

“No, Jay, that night meant everything to me,” he squeezed her hands and stood up. Turning around, he walked to the window -- _checkmate_. Shepard leaned forward carefully, getting to her feet awkwardly. Resting his hands on the window ledge and looking up to the clear blue skies, he continued, “I couldn’t even get into a spaceship for a while after what happened.” Shepard was standing bent over now, her body a right angle with the chair. “I’d think about being ... up there, where you died, and freeze up.” She took a tentative step by twisting her whole hip and didn’t fall over. One more, one more. “I tried to move on but one look at you and everything pulled hard to port, you know? I still love you, Jay, and it makes me wonder who I really am.”

“Love’s a heavy burden,” she replied sagely, fighting to keep the sneer from her voice. “I’ve heard you can sink under it.” Before he could finish turning around, she Charged biotically across the room, blasting both of them out the window. It was only the second floor but she hit the ground hard, grateful for bone density upgrades when the chair smashed to pieces around her. She started struggling to twist her bound arms under her legs immediately.

“What -- what are you... ?” Kaidan coughed, groaning, rolling gingerly to his knees.

“Now, pay attention,” she demanded, wanting to cleanse her mouth of him by spitting poison.  “That was a cute trick you pulled earlier” -- arms in front now, she started wrestling with the ropes -- “And I’m real fucking happy that you finally grew some balls”-- the last of the ropes came off. “ _But_ ...”

He looked up, holding his head with one hand and wincing, preparing to stand. Amp cooled, Shepard Charged again, knocking him back down. Crouching, she grabbed his collar, held her omni-blade to his face and finished, “But the next time you get in my way, I’ll cut them off and sell them to a krogan. Is that crystal fucking clear?”

Then she tossed him back down and bolted, leaving a stunned Kaidan in her wake. Winning should have brought its usual high but when Shepard thought about Anderson, sickness spread instead, sour in her mouth. _Later_ , she commanded herself. _Get back to the rendezvous and you can punch something later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The references in this chapter:
> 
> "The Prince", Machiavelli. Vaguely translated to, "One must be a fox to avoid snares and a lion to scare off wolves."  
> "The Fellowship of the Ring", Tolkien. "Ho ho ho to the bottle we go!"  
> "The Princess Bride", Goldman. "My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father, prepare to die."  
> "The Picture of Dorian Gray", Wilde. "You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit."  
> "Romeo and Juliet", Shakespeare. "Under love's heavy burden do I sink."


	7. Telling Tall Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual violence referenced in this chapter. It's not very explicitly graphic (I think), but I actually think that makes it kind of worse, because it's like the real horrors are implied. If you'd rather not read about that, just jump to the last scene after my dividing backslash, and you'll get the gist of what happened.

Dizzy, Garrus tried to force his eyes open but the room kept spinning. They had dragged him down a flight of stairs and it’d taken all the core strength he possessed to keep curled up, limiting how often his head had banged the floor. The whole encounter had started badly: when they’d come to the cell, Garrus had inquired dryly, “Do you think you could you read us our rights as prisoners of the Alliance?”

“No.”

“No, we don’t have rights, or no, you can’t read?” Lawson had replied snidely.

Not to be one-upped, Garrus tag-teamed, “Guess which one of those would actually be surprising.”

Rifle butt to his face. The last thing he saw when they grabbed his ankles and dragged him away was a blurry Lawson, sitting on the ground, a resolute frown on her face. She made eye contact with him briefly, pitying. Pitying _him_ , which he found unsettling, given what they were going to do to _her_ (if Shepard was right, which unfortunately, she usually was).

Foggily, a voice registered in his brain. The soldiers were talking about him:

“You think he’s brain damaged?”

“Nah, they’re all like that. Giant insect hive mind.”

“What? They’re birds or something, not insects.”

“Whatever, man. My granddad said they can’t think to take a _piss_ for themselves without being told.”

“At least,” Garrus croaked out, finding his voice. “Our first reaction isn’t to piss our pants, unlike your dear grandparents on Shanxi.”

A back-hand to the face followed by a yelp. Garrus fell over, unable to catch himself with his cuffed wrists. “Shit! What are their faces made of? That fucking hurt!” The assailant was waving his hand in front of him, shaking his fingers.

“Is there a purpose ...” Garrus gasped, rolling to his side. “... to this lovely encounter, or were you just hoping to finally be introduced to civilized company?”

One of them grabbed the back of his head by the fringe and forced him to look up. There weren’t that many of them; only four. While that made Garrus’ chances for escape much better, it also had other implications. Either this base wasn’t interested in torturing prisoners to pass the time and these soldiers were just exceptionally ghoulish; or most of the others would prefer partaking in abusing Lawson. Even before Omega, Garrus was never naive enough to believe the former. His stomach twisted in compassion for the Cerberus operative.

“How is it that the Butcher picks the Alliance’s two most hated groups to work with? Cerberus _and_ turians?”

Was this an interrogation, then? The Butcher ... Garrus had heard that name before but it slipped into disuse once she was the “Saviour of the Citadel”.

“My sister served under that cunt and never made it off Torfan,” one of them mused bitterly. “Now the Butcher is running with you fucking aliens, _again_?”

“She’d throw a fucking platoon of marines to the slaughter just to kill one alien,”  another agreed, “And then she let them on an Alliance ship. Un-fucking-believe. A goddamn insult.”

No, just a chance for some bigoted bullying. Shepard would be so pleased to learn she wasn’t wrong, although she hadn’t anticipated her own military history as being another source of hate. Regardless, Garrus tried to remember Shepard’s advice; he couldn’t just provoke them but had to be provocable.

“Don’t you _dare_ compare turians to batarian scum,” he seethed, groping in his mind for righteousness instead of snark. There had been a time when that was so easy, so natural for him. Now, he quietly asked for forgiveness from Grundan Krul.  “The Saviour of the Citadel knows the difference. Show some respect.”

“Ha!” one of them laughed, turning to the others. “Isn’t that fucking cute? He’s defending her. That’s some real turian-human diplomacy in action. You fucking birds playing nice, these days, huh? The Butcher clip your wings, birdie?” There was a threat lying between those words.

“She respects me because unlike you, we’re professionals about our job.”

“Respects you? You know what? Fuck it, I’m glad she’s got aliens and terrorists running her ship these days. When she marches you to your death, she’ll be doing the Alliance a favour.” That stung more than Garrus should have allowed it to given they were, in fact, on a suicide mission.

“No, she would never do that to you,” Garrus retorted with artificial sweetness. “The Commander wouldn’t think you capable of combat at all, never mind giving you the honour of death in battle.”

“You’re just whipped for her, aren’t you, birdie?” one of them got closer and breathed into his face. Garrus realized he could see more clearly now, having gone a solid minute without getting hit in the face. This one had dark hair and bright, narrow green eyes. “Is she fucking aliens now too? What’s the matter: couldn’t get any from your prude turian bitches?”

What a transparent, cliché attempt to emasculate him. But an idea occurred to him then, something that might actually be useful intelligence for his own purposes: “We hold our women in high regard; you treat yours like playthings only worthy of scorn and abuse. Isn’t that what you’re doing to my companion upstairs?” Garrus would have traded another blow to the face for a reaction of outrage and disgust.

Instead, he got a cruel scoff from one of them -- the one who seemed to be leading this pack of varren, followed by a slow, “Cerberus has killed a lot of good Alliance soldiers, birdie; fifty marines died on Akuze because of them. That terrorist bitch is just getting a taste of what’s coming to all of them.” Garrus tensed for the first time, feeling genuinely angry.

He spat out, “Because being cannon fodder entitles you to whoever you want, right?” It felt satisfying to throw Lawson’s words back at them, like he was verbally paying homage to her. The leader pulled Garrus to his knees and rested his hand on Garrus’ mangled mandible.

Then ripped the bandage off. Garrus roared in pain, the wound tearing open and fresh blood spurting. Flashes appeared in his vision and he fell forwards again, moaning.

“Hey, guys, remember that turian bitch that came around a few weeks ago?” the leader asked the others, a sinister shadow to his voice. “The one who’s escape pod crashed around here?” Garrus barely registered the words, still reeling in pain. “Yeah, poor thing ... ugly creature, if you ask me, we couldn’t even tell if it was a female ... came around looking to make an emergency holo-call.” Garrus stopped moving and knew they delighted in his sudden alertness. _They’re making it up. They’re inventing a story to get you angry. It’s a lie. Don’t buy it._ “We invited her in all right, real polite --”

The speaker stopped, grinning wolfishly, and crouched down so that he was eye-level with Garrus. He continued, each word biting, “--can’t say the same about her, ungrateful little cunt, we had to tie her down good. Took us _hours_ to figure out how to get her plates open so we could fuck her.” Garrus swallowed, paralyzed by this horror story. “You know what we did to her after that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Garrus said in a hollow voice, feeling funny and distant from his body. “When I’m through with you, whatever you did to her will look like a kindness.”

“We --”

Garrus lurched upwards, smashing his head into the speaker, blue and red blood mixing and splattering on both of them. Instantly, two of them jumped on him, holding him down; the impact tugged at his re-opened wound. He opened his mouth to gasp in pain and the fourth man shoved the barrel of a pistol inside.

“You little shit!” the injured soldier screamed, holding his bloodied head in his hands. Garrus stayed very still, mouth still around the gun. One wrong move, one trigger pull, and there’d be a hole through the back of his head. He needed a way out of here. He was not going to die in a dank Alliance basement, blue blood spilled along rotting walls, a headless corpse that would never make it back to his family for a proper funeral. He did not survive Omega for _this_. He looked around the room carefully and noticed something new: two humans in particular seemed very similar. Brothers: the one holding the gun and the one Garrus had headbutted were probably brothers.

“What the fuck are you doing? Don’t!” one of the others yelled at the gun-brother.

The gun-brother snarled back, “You gonna rat us out to the LT?”

“You said we’d just rough him up, we can’t fucking kill him, oh shit ...”

“Shut up!” the bloodied-brother yelled. “This was your fucking idea! It’s on you!”

While they yelled at each other, Garrus subtly moved his wrists, lining them up with his damaged cheek. This would not be the first time he rested his life on the strength of his aim and steady hands; Garrus was determined it not be the last.

It was now or never. It’s not like he had much of a face to lose, anyways.

“ARGH!” Garrus growled, using the deepest, most frightening sub vocals he could muster, shifting his head sideways around the gun --

\-- out of pure panicked reaction, the gun-brother pulled the trigger --

\-- Garrus felt a terrible burn in the side of his cheek but the shot went through cleanly, hitting his wrists. Fresh pain engulfed his face and his hand. His aim hadn’t been perfect and he had felt the shot along his left digit but at least the cuffs were broken. Swiftly, Garrus rolled to his feet and tackled the dumbstruck gun-brother around the neck. The pain wasn’t as blinding as it should have been, given his face was already numb from losing the bandage.

The bloodied-brother’s eye opened wide. “Let him go! Don’t, fuck -- let him go!” He looked genuinely afraid. _Idiots_ , Garrus could almost hear Shepard breathing in his ear. _Why don’t they just hand you their psyche profile, while they’re at it?_

“No one comes near me,” Garrus growled, blood pouring down his neck, eyes bulging, aware of how monstrous he must have looked. He pulled the gun-brother to his feet with him. “Or I snap his neck.” Holding the gun-brother as his hostage, arm around his neck, Garrus started moving towards the basement stairs. He started walking backwards up them and the soldiers moved slightly to follow. “NO!” Garrus shouted, tightening his grip. The hostage struggled and the soldiers stopped at the foot of the stairs, hands up.

When Garrus got to the top of the stairs, he could still see the bloodied-brother’s face and he paused. He could just throw the hostage back down, make them scramble. He had what he needed and could leave. But in that moment, with perfect clarity, Garrus imagined what Shepard would do, and remembered why she did what she did. Why she alone in the galaxy beat everyone and everything, including death.

A chilling calm breezed over him, caressing away any remaining mercy.

“Just so you know,” Garrus heard himself say. “ _Every_ turian knows how to open up a human.” He raked his talon across the hostage’s face, digging in deep while the hostage howled, spasming in pain. Garrus shoved the bleeding, disfigured man down the stairs and ran through the door. He locked it behind him and broke open the access panel, tearing apart the wires to disable the unlock.

He listened to the muffled screams and sobs trapped behind the door like background music. He saw the soft human flesh trapped under his claws like ribbons. He just stood for a moment, vacant, until a woman’s voice hissed, “ _Vakarian_!”

It was Lawson. A blackened eye already healing, an angrily swelling lower lip, dark bruises on her neck, and wearing an Alliance-issued hooded sweater zipped over her usual skin-tight uniform. The smell of death and violence and _victory_ hung around her. She studied him too and he knew that she saw no better in him.

“We,” she said dryly, handing him a loaded gun.  “Are _literally_ a bloody mess. Come on; I contacted the Commander and she’s already escaped. Let’s go.” She turned, ducking down a back corridor. This wing of the base seemed eerily quiet. Where was everyone?

“Lawson,” Garrus whispered, still surprised, following her. “Are you hurt? Was ... was Shepard right about...?”

“Yes,” Lawson replied, quiet and terse, still facing forward.

“Miranda” -- she turned around at the sound of her first name -- “nothing’s your fault. You know that, right?”

“No,” she agreed, a darkness in her eyes. “It was theirs.”

Garrus saw their bodies when they passed the lounge room. One of the few survivors still had his pants down, unconscious but breathing. As they slunk past, Lawson paused. She lifted her gun -- “Too loud,” Garrus stopped her. He moved to rest his foot gently on the man’s neck, tilted his head in a silent question to Lawson, and she nodded.

He shifted his weight and pressed down hard, crunching bones.

\

They were standing guard at the shuttle, waiting for Shepard. She said, in her precise words, that she would be there in one and a half minutes. Garrus cast an uneasy glance at Lawson, who stood with her pistol moving between three points. Despite her visible injuries, nothing in her behaviour had changed: clipped, professional, distant. Garrus respectfully took his cues from her and focused on his own watch zone.

Where _was_ Shepard? He knew that she, better than anyone, could take care of herself but it’d been one minute already. She had thirty seconds, he decided, before he’d grab a rifle from the shuttle and go back out there. Lawson could watch the shuttle while he went back out. She had fifteen seconds. Five seconds ...

“ _GO_!” Shepard yelled as she ran, coming in fast. For the last few yards, she Charged and collapsed at the foot of the open door of the floating shuttle. Gasping, she climbed in, still saying, “Get this fucking thing in flight! What are you waiting for? I said one minute and a half, didn’t I, Lawson? Go!” The Cerberus shuttle pilot inside heard and the mass effect core powered up, whirring. Garrus and Lawson jumped in and the doors slammed shut.

Shepard bent over, resting her palms on her thighs, inhaling deeply. “Fuck, Lawson, I thought you said I had augmented-regen tissue in my lungs.” The shuttle was rising quickly now.

“Considering you smoked half a pack this morning, it’s not like your lungs actually had any time to, you know, regen.” Lawson looked unimpressed, resting one hand on her cocked out hip. Garrus had to admire Lawson’s ability to seem so normal after the atrocity that had been inflicted upon her.

Grumbling, Shepard threw herself onto the wall bench. She’d lost her helmet at some point, Garrus noticed. Shepard looked up at Lawson, appraised her state and grimaced, cursing under her breath. For Shepard, on the compassion scale, this was the equivalent of throwing her arms around Lawson in a heartfelt embrace. Lawson looked uncertain of how to respond to this foreign behaviour from Shepard. She settled for turning around, joining the pilot in the cockpit and closing the door.

It was just Garrus and Shepard now. He went to grab medi-gel from the first-aid centre, finally having a moment to apply it to his face. Silence rang between them; they hadn’t had a friendly conversation since the incident at the pub. The timer above the cockpit door blinked, indicating they would be within docking distance of the Normandy in nine minutes. Nine minutes of strained silence, wonderful.

A minute passed.

Garrus shuffled in his seat. What had happened to her? He wondered. She was the least vulnerable person he’d ever met but there was something strange to her right now. Instead of explosive anger, she seemed a distant, stewing rage. She wasn’t visibly injured but seemed tense. She obviously didn’t want to talk. Above all, why did this shuttle have to take so damn long? Garrus was already craving the stoney buzz that he would be able to induce soon.

Another minute passed.

Garrus put the medi-gel down, his face healed as much as it could until he could get to Chakwas. He avoided looking at Shepard. Whatever Kaidan had said to her or done to her, she was retreating. Her anger was becoming a guarded, weary cloud, hanging around her. It was like each second, another brick was being lain between them as they isolated themselves.

Another minute. A hundred more bricks.

He couldn’t let this wall build up, he thought. Spirits, he couldn’t go back to his self-imposed solitary confinement, stuck in that battery, with no one talking to him and only a bottle of pills or whiskey for company.

Five minutes left. They were in the upper stratosphere and the Normandy would be in sight soon.

It wasn’t even his problem, he decided. Shepard was strong and Garrus was a survivor and they would be fine. He was over-thinking them. She would probably say that he was stupid for even bringing anything up. Garrus had never been good at broaching these topics anyways; it had taken an overdose of stims for him to even call his father on that bridge... that Shepard had saved him from, once again, appearing out of nowhere, at exactly the right time, with a purpose for him, he really did owe her, he should say something...

Another minute.

Shepard rolled her shoulders to work out kinks and then bent at the waist again, crossing her arms on her legs and resting her forehead on them. That’s when he noticed the Collector Particle Beam -- of course. No wonder she’d taken her time, probably went scavenging to find another one after the Alliance took hers away. Bracing himself with the same steel he needed before flinging a grenade and ducking for cover, he started unstrapping the weapon off her back.

She gave a start but didn’t move, asking suspiciously, “Garrus? What exactly are you doing?”

“Byreing your bow till you list to draw?” he offered tentatively. He continued fiddling with the silly, small straps of human armour clearly designed for fingers, not talons. She craned her neck to look up at him, staring at him like he’d told her he’d impregnated a hanar.

“Uh, well, you know,” Garrus added hurriedly, thinking maybe he said it wrong. “From Robin Hood and --”

“-- and the Monk, yeah, fuck, I know the story, Garrus,” she said, sounding confused, not angry. “What I _don’t_ know is why a turian is quoting eight-hundred year old human literature.”

“You called me your Little John,” Garrus replied, frowning. The weapon off now, he rested it on his lap, surprised at it’s weight. No wonder her shoulders were aching, he thought. Getting back up so they were sitting side by side, she tilted her head and scrutinized him with a sidelong look, waiting. “I ... I looked it up on the extranet, after, to see if you were making fun of me,” Garrus finished, somewhat lamely.

Blinking dazedly, Shepard replied, “You ... wow, shit, oh, Garrus. I didn’t know. I was just running my mouth, fuck.”

“You didn’t mean it?”

“No!” she assured, eyes widening. “No! I meant it, Garrus. Shit, I meant it. But I just ... I don’t know, it’s kinda weird. People don’t usually ... do ... that. Thing.” She looked away, uncomfortable. For the first time in hours, a warmth spread in Garrus. He felt strangely pleased with himself for having this effect on her.

“It’s the best of his stories,” he continued more confidently. “Robin Hood cheats Little John and then gets himself kidnapped --”

“-- and Little John rescues him, saving the day. Fuck, yeah, _of course_ that’s your favourite --”

“--and then, Robin Hood offers to be Little John’s man, but Little John is such a fine fellow that he says he would never serve under anyone else. Even if Robin Hood is a cheating, lying, cocky asshole.”

For once, Shepard had no smart-ass remark. She just smiled at him. Then she teased, genuine smile still in place, “Yeah, what a bastard, right?” It was almost like Garrus could see a little drawbridge keeper in her mind, appraising him, and then deciding to lower the bridge back down. Maybe she was feeling the same warmth, too, he thought.

“The worst,” he agreed light-heartedly, forgetting not to grin too widely. His talon shot up to cover his injured face and he groaned. Shepard clucked her tongue him, shaking her head. “Don’t even start, Shepard. How did you escape, anyways?” Garrus deflected.

And normal Shepard was back, a front of lazy, self-assured air moving in. Legs spread, she sunk in her seat so her shoulder blades were pressed against the wall instead of her back. She folded her hands over her stomach. “How did I escape?” she repeated with great drama. “Shit, with difficulty! How did I plan the moment? With _pleasure_.” Smirking, she looked at his confused expression and explained, “I manipulated him with my feminine wiles.” Garrus snorted. “And then I blasted him out a window.”

“Of course you did.” He’d meant to sound sarcastic but it came out affectionate.

“It was pretty bitchin’, for the record.”

“I believe it,” he conceded, not even trying to hide his amusement this time.

“Please exit the shuttle and enter the decontamination chamber,” EDI interrupted as the shuttle aligned with the Normandy.

“Hey,” Garrus prodded as they stood up, stretching. He had one last chance to say something before her Commander face came back on. “That other thing you said, about escaping -- that was from a human story too, wasn’t it?”

“Twas.”

“Which?”

“Tell you what, Vakarian,” she said, smiling that new, genuine smile again. “I’ll transfer you a copy.” She hopped off the shuttle.

Suddenly, Garrus wished he’d had more than nine minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> "Robin Hood and the Monk", Unknown. "Litul Jon shall beyre mine bow till that me list to drawe."  
> "The Count of Monte Cristo", Dumas. "How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan the moment? With pleasure!"


	8. Shadows in Bright Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick plug: if any of you have played Deus Ex: Human Revolution, I posted a little 1000 word piece together. Yes, it also features very manipulative, conspiring characters, because that's just my jam, apparently.

The three of them were in the comms room; normally, Shepard and Lawson handled the debriefs but this time the Illusive Man had insisted Garrus accompany them for reasons unknown. Garrus had been curious to meet the Illusive Man, to say the least. He didn’t like the ravenous appetite in the Illusive Man’s eyes or the condescending smile that ever-graced his lips. This conversation was not going as Garrus anticipated, either, having learned that the Illusive Man had intentionally sent the squad to Horizon as bait.

“The Collectors called you by name, Shepard; the exception," the Illusive Man continued, thinking aloud. He exhaled smoke.

Shepard shrugged, nonchalant. “I am exceptional,” she stated, her mundane tone revealing her arrogance. Crossing her arms, she added sarcastically, “Maybe they think I’m too weird to live and too rare to die.”

“Indeed. We’ve covered the obvious benefits of visiting Horizon,” the Illusive Man concluded, taking a drag on his cigarette. “So you agree that leaking information about your return was important.” Surely she would argue this point? Garrus wondered.

Shepard gave a curt nod in response: “Agreed.” Garrus found her behaviour with the Illusive Man interesting; she was respectful, reasonable, even humorous. If he didn’t know better, Garrus would say that there seemed a _friendliness_ between them.

“I only put out enough information to merit an intelligence operation, not a full scale arrest. Their hostility towards you is greater than we assumed. I’ll expect you to proceed with caution in Alliance space in the future, Shepard.”

“Sir,” Miranda jumped in, “In all fairness, it wasn’t Alliance space; the colony was only recently occupied by Alliance forces because of the GARDIAN --”

“You are in no place to be criticizing the Alliance, Miranda,” the Illusive Man shut her down harshly without looking at her. “I suggest you remain quiet.” Garrus balled his fist but said nothing, choosing to watch Shepard’s reaction instead. It was better than feeling his chest deflate at Miranda’s expression, like she’d be slapped across the face.

“We were surrounded and arrested on suspicion of kidnapping,” Shepard replied calmly, ignoring the Illusive Man’s treatment of Miranda. “Of course, had we anticipated the Alliance’s presence, we might not have let our guard down.” The Illusive Man raised an eyebrow.

“I hear the Alliance sent one Kaidan Alenko to greet you. I understand you have a history with this man” -- _oh shit_ , Garrus thought, _Shepard isn’t going to stand for this_ “-- but I need to know this mission will have your complete attention, Shepard. Can you focus?”

“Why don’t you ask Lawson? She probably designed my corneas,” Shepard replied dryly. She uncrossed her arms and rested her hands on her hips, rolling her shoulders, sounding dreadfully bored. “Everything went as well as it could have, given our intelligence source was withholding information. We had planned to bring the Normandy in for backup but it proved unnecessary, as we escaped swiftly and were already en route to extraction. We did little to antagonize the Alliance ... unless you’re suggesting we should have?” It was not a question but a quiet challenge.

“ _Antagonize_ , what a pertinent choice of words, Shepard.“ He flicked ashes off his cigarette before continuing, “Did dead soldiers not occur to you as antagonizing?”

“I didn’t --”

“-- you’re right, _you_ didn’t,” the Illusive Man cut her off in what Garrus guessed was a rare display of anger. Shepard stiffened, the very act of interrupting her being an insult. “I saw the casualty reports.” The Illusive Man turned his attention to Lawson. “Your confirmed kills are significantly higher than Vakarian and Shepard, Miranda. Not to mention captured on footage. I expect better from you, of all people. Care to explain this blood-spilling spree?”

Miranda looked, for the first time since Garrus had abandoned her in that cell, horror struck. “You -- you saw ... “ Understanding dawned on her face and she tried for her usual blank expression: “I thought we took out all the cameras, sir, but evidently only the ones nearest our cell --”

“You thought. Really? Because I was under the impression no thinking happened at all.”

“But you know that they -- they tried ...” Miranda couldn’t finish, looking deeply uncomfortable. It killed Garrus; being the object of the Illusive Man’s derision wrenched more of a reaction from her than anything Garrus saw on Horizon.

Cruelly, the Illusive Man patronized, “I know, and I’m sorry for you, Miranda, but that’s no excuse. This is Cerberus: we are an elegant, precise organization. We don’t slaughter people in a selfish rage like the Alliance --”

“I would be very careful before continuing,” Shepard said suddenly. Garrus had been fuming inside, waiting for her to step in and offer some protection. Seeing Miranda being dragged through the mud made Garrus feel awful, like his insides were being wrung out, made all the worse that Miranda clearly admired the Illusive Man and being publicly humiliated like this was crushing her.

“Shepard,” the Illusive Man began and Garrus sensed he was backtracking at her intervention. “In some circles you’re still _the Butcher_ ; surely you know better than anyone what kind of methods the Alliance chooses to employ.”

“Actually,” Shepard replied coolly. “I was referring to the part where you were about to criticize my crew for following my orders.” Miranda looked at Shepard, a small narrowing of eyes the only indication that she was surprised.

“Lawson is capable of handling criticism, Shepard,” the Illusive Man countered. “Despite this one-time lapse in judgement, she’s a professional.”

“I’m well aware,” Shepard replied. “But this isn’t about Lawson, this is about my command and my explicit orders: Kill every bastard that gets in your way, and then kill a couple more.”

“I see,” the Illusive Man inhaled a deep drag, blowing a cloud of smoke that obscured his face slightly. “On principle, Shepard, that was a bad idea. It reveals a troubling lack of restraint.”

“It’s the bad people who need to have principles to restrain them,” Shepard rejoined, a ghost of a smile haunting her lips. The Illusive Man’s face twisted in ironic smirk; Garrus felt weirdly uncomfortable at the idea of them sharing private jokes. “Lawson didn’t like it -- she said as much” -- this was a blatant lie, Miranda had said nothing of the sort --“but she followed orders, like a good soldier does. I appreciate your information and willingness to back me, but at the end of the day, we’re the ones risking our necks groundside, and my orders win out.”

Picking up Shepard’s confidence like a spare shield battery, Miranda added, “The Commander is ... spasmodic in her application of violence, sir.” All business again, any trace of her mortification gone. “I tried to dissuade her before but I believe it might actually be what makes her so effective. She -- it makes us unpredictable to our opponents.”

“There, you heard it yourself: spasmodic violence.” Shepard leaned forward, resting her palms on the desk and not breaking eye contact with the Illusive Man. All humour gone, Shepard said tightly, “Now, I don’t ever want to hear you question my team for following orders again. You have an issue with their actions, you say it to me. Am I running this crew or am I not?”

The Illusive Man studied her, and Garrus knew what he saw: a dangerous glitter in her eyes, pulsing orange scars; ferocity personified. The Illusive Man responded carefully, “It’s clear that you have the crew’s respect.” Wriggly bastard. “Archangel” -- Garrus would have winced if he hadn’t been so surprised at being addressed “--what’s your opinion on Horizon?”

“I think ...” Garrus paused, feeling Shepard tense with this sudden shift. “... I think sometimes we have to make tough but unpleasant calls. I accept that.” Simple, loyal, safe words.

“Glad to hear it,” something unreadable shone in his eyes but the Illusive Man finished, “You’ll be receiving three new dossiers soon. I look forward to your next report, Shepard.” He hung up.

Miranda immediately moved to leave the room but Shepard warned loudly, “Lawson. Get back here.” Miranda whipped her head around.

“No. We are _not_ talking about this,” Miranda ordered, uncaring, for once, of formalities. Shaking a bit, Miranda left, not looking back.

“An upset Miranda seems like a bad situation. What if she has a self-destruct code for the ship?” Garrus asked after Miranda was out of earshot.

“For the ship? Shit, Garrus, for all I know, she probably has one for me.” Shepard seemed very unbothered by this idea. She flashed Garrus the smallest of smirks. “Relax, I’m going to go see her. Ping you later? Might as well take a break while waiting.”

“You mean a drink.”

“That’s what I said.”

Back in his quarters, Garrus settled in for a few hours to himself. His face bandaged up again, he’d gotten a refill of painkillers from Chakwas but increasingly they seemed to have no effect. He’d taken almost four times the recommended dosage to feel the pleasant numbness of medication. Based on his research on the extranet, he was at the apex of nontoxic amounts.

Flipping over to lie on his cot, one arm under his head, Garrus wondered about Shepard while the ceiling began to swim. Red lights cast demonic shadows while he sank somewhere far away, a strange pressure on his carapace, pushing his emotions down. She had set the conversation up perfectly, he thought. Luring the Illusive Man into thinking they were on the same side, establishing enough agreement between them, subtly goading him into criticizing their arrest so that she could sweep in for a rescue. And, Garrus was vaguely aware, letting Miranda suffer just long enough to make it count. And there had been that strange final comment ... what did the Illusive Man want with him?

Nothingness crept in, slipping in through the edges of his blurring vision. He pondered, safe in his space now, about his squad. Deep inhale, long exhale. It didn’t hurt like this, wrapped in a blanket of chemicals. He didn’t have to shove their memories into a concrete safe, trip-wired and sentry-gun guarded, in order to function.

Sidonis would have liked Shepard, Garrus thought, humming absently. Sidonis had been wry and clever, perceptive and a fast-talker. Shepard wouldn’t have liked Sidonis; she’d have thought him weak. Like a drill, twisting and digging into his chest, Garrus wondered for how long Sidonis had been playing him too, if at all. Had he cracked under torture? Or had he always intended to sell them out?

Maybe Garrus should have been angry or disgusted with Shepard, he thought, she was worse than a barefaced politician in a lot of ways. His father had seen her methods as a blight on the galaxy, even after she was martyred in death. But if ... if Garrus had had her wits and unflinching logic, back on Omega ... Could he have seen it coming? They hadn't been together long, only a few months, but the same rung true of the SR1. He knew (had known, he corrected himself dimly) their weapon cleaning habits, their ration bar preferences, who kicked their boots off carelessly and who neatly put everything away ...

Garrus should have keened for them. He should have turned over and muffled his face in his pillow. Instead, a bitter insult to their sacrifice, Garrus felt only shame for not having the courage to feel anything at all.

\

“No.”

“You’re being childish.”

“You are on thin fucking ice with me, Garrus.”

“Why? Why can’t you just ask?” Garrus swiveled his stool to face her, resting an elbow on the bar.

His head felt heavy and foggy and he’d been almost an hour late to meet her, having slept in from his drug-induced trip. She’d been waiting for him at an outdoor beach bar on a tropical tourist planet, looking very summery in sunglasses, shorts and a sleeveless shirt. The sun, while lovely and warm on his scales, also meant blinding rays that worsened his headache. Garrus realized he was spared any snark about his tardiness because she’d been busy flirting salaciously with the very buff human male bartender. He found this inexplicably annoying, even more than the harsh light and loud yelps of glee from the beach.

“Because it won’t work,” she said.

“Elaborate, please, my lesser mind just can’t wrap my head around why you would reject _Spectre_ status. Status that would largely immunize you to the law while working with terrorists, just to be clear.”

Shepard sighed, swiveling her bar stool to face the crowds. Reaching behind her to pick up her beer, she took a sip and said without looking at Garrus, “Okay, look. Anderson doesn’t fall for my shit, he never has, from literally the day I met him. I can’t coax Spectre status from him.”

“Why did you say no the first time?” Garrus asked, now facing the side of her body. He felt affection replace vexation, gently rolling in like the tide on the beach. “Shepard, I’m not mad. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Don’t get condescending on me, asshole. Anderson and I go way back; I’ve known that guy since I was a teenager,” she said, weary.

“You mean when you were running with the Reds?”

She gave a start but covered it with a swig of beer. “Who told you that?”

“They published a bio on you,” Garrus offered. “After you ... died.” She didn’t say anything, so he continued uncertainly, “I can’t really remember what it said, something about a troubled childhood on Earth, petty crimes, things like that.” Garrus didn’t think reciting the whole thing off by heart would be prudent. She would certainly mock him.

“It doesn’t bother you, that I was a criminal? I thought your only principle was that guilt should never be doubted.” She held her hand out beside her. Garrus noticed the cigarette pack on the bar and dutifully put it in her hand.

“Of course not! You were just a kid, Shepard. An orphan trying to make ends meet. I know the difference between desperation and malice.”

Beer bottle between her knees, she paused briefly in pulling out a cigarette, just a moment too long to be natural. Without looking at him, she replied, “Right.” In an even, neutral tone, she asked, “What do you know about the Reds?”

“Mostly that my father used to grumble about them, back when they were a big deal. Humans only just found the relays, he’d say, and they’re already spreading crime across the galaxy.” Garrus shrugged, tipping back his beer. “I heard they got busted up and fragmented eventually; your luck, I guess. Why?” Shepard shrugged and didn’t answer, bringing a cigarette to her lips. Garrus powered the rope burner on his omni tool and held it in front of her. She cocked her head in question at him.

“Trading good manners for a good story,” he answered wryly. With a huffed laugh, she accepted his offer, leaning over to light her smoke. “So how’d you meet him? Anderson?”

“I got myself into a complicated situation,” she confessed as she exhaled smoke, pulling the cigarette from her mouth with two fingers. “He offered enlisting as a way out. He said, four years, kid. And then four years came up and I wanted out and Anderson pulled some strings, got me into the N program. And then the N program contract was ending so Anderson convinced me to be his XO on the Normandy. It’ll be fun, he said. Okay, I told him, but this is my last fucking tour.” She scoffed a laugh. “And then he went and nominated me for Spectre. Kept finding reasons for me to stay and then I come back from the dead and actually _want_ to be in the Alliance, and he blows me off and tries to have me arrested.” Bitterly, she concluded, “Fucker. Just goes to show, huh?”

Garrus didn’t know what to say. She would not want sympathy or condolences. She sat quietly now, smoking and contemplative, having spoken about herself for longer than Garrus had ever known her. He did know that he wanted to punch Anderson.

“It sounds to me like you deserve to be a Spectre again,” he soothed. He hooked his boot on the metal ring footrest of her barstool, spinning her around to face him. He tried to look kind but it was hard with a thick gauze of bandages spread even farther up his face now. “Aren’t you actually pissed with him for what he pulled, sending Kaidan?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, and he sensed she already knew where this was going.

“And don’t you honestly think he owes you one, given what he indirectly allowed to happen to your squad?”

“It’s true,” she conceded. Garrus knew he had already won by this point. “Fine, I’ll fucking talk to him. Being a Spectre again would be damn convenient.” She grinned at him roguishly, adding, “And the Spectre mystique is very sexy.”

“Well, you don’t seem to have any problems in that department,” Garrus indulged dryly, sensing her desire to change topics. “You’re not actually going to sleep with that boulder of a waiter, are you? You might as well fuck a krogan.”

“That’s way more painful,” Shepard said dismissively, spinning around on her stool to face the bar again, eyeing said waiter’s behind.

“Wait, what?”

“They’re very big,” she shrugged, taking a sip of beer. “And the second one isn’t exactly _flaccid_ , even if it’s just a redundant cock.”

“You’ve never actually ... have you tried?” Garrus questioned, incredulous, all thoughts of punching Anderson chased away.

“Remember that time I let you drive the Mako, and I joined Wrex in the back?”

Garrus sprayed his beer in a deeply uncivilized way, choking. Shepard threw her head back and cackled with evil laughter.

Still chuckling, she downed her beer and jumped to her feet, throwing a credit chit on the bar for their drinks. “Alright, I gotta bail, Vakarian.” She tossed him another one. “Here. Go buy yourself something pretty. Be back at the ship in two hours.”

Garrus shrugged. “I’m meeting Goto soon anyways. Maybe I can use this” -- he held up the chit -- “to pay for her purchases when she isn’t looking. You?” It was such a small thing, Garrus reflected, but a signpost of how much things had changed between them. Two years ago, Garrus would never have dreamed of inquiring after Commander Shepard’s social schedule.

“I told Lawson I’d meet her at some nouveau-industrial bar in fifteen,” Shepard said, tossing her finished smoke and crushing it under her shoe. “She and I have some things we should talk about.” Garrus nodded.

“Wait, Shepard, about Lawson ...” he started, waiting for her to turn back around. “Go easy on her, will you? You didn’t see what I saw.”

She pushed her sunglasses up on her head and gave him a long look. “I saw the reports, too. You did good.” She patted the mangled half of his face twice by way of goodbye.

\

Despite himself, Garrus found he quite enjoyed Kasumi Goto’s company. Again, Shepard had been right; at first, Kasumi had found amusement in telling wild stories of her robberies on the Citadel, likely ones that happened under his nose. It wasn’t hard to give her the right amount of exasperated bemusement to keep her coming back for more.

She reminded him, in some ways, of Shepard. She wasn’t as sharp-toothed or cruel but she had the same cheerfully irreverent approach to life. Perhaps he shouldn’t have but Garrus found this attitude strangely refreshing, compared to the veneers of civility and duty that had coated most of his life.

The shopping district was all polished sidewalks, posh cafes and bustling crowds, everyone too self-absorbed to notice a quick-fingered thief. “You realize that paying for half of your luxury finds doesn’t make stealing okay, right? Capitalistic trade is based on transactions, not karma.” She shrugged, not in the off-the-shoulder way that Shepard would, but more a spring upwards of her shoulders, bending her elbows so that her palms also faced up. _“Nothing to see here,”_   the perky gesture seemed to say.

“Karma,” she replied, eyes twinkling. “Now _that_ sounds delightful. How do I get some?” Opening her mouth in delighted surprise, she wagged a finger at him and she reached over into one of the (many) shopping bags Garrus was carrying for her. She pulled out a lipstick and tossed it to some teenage asari standing nearby. Startled, they caught it, and seeing the brand, squealed thanks.

“Very cute, Kasumi,” Garrus remarked, taking a seat as they entered a clothing store. Kasumi would no doubt want to try on (and stow away) an obscene number of outfits, badgering him for (and subsequently ignoring) his opinions on all of them. “You keep building up cosmic assets like that and you’ll be owed a lottery win any day --” He cursed. A strong, perfumed smell hit his nose and the headache that was just beginning to go away sprang back, full strength. Garrus bent over, resting his head in his talons, feeling sick.

“Garrus? Are you alright?” Kasumi asked with a frown, crouching down to put a hand on his arm. Another funny difference between her and Shepard; Kasumi was very generous with her affection. An easy tactic to gain trust for slipping past security guards and pick pocketing, no doubt. Even still, Garrus appreciated the gesture.

“Ah, yeah, bit of a headache,” he tried for a half smile, his good mandible flaring. “Hit the drinks a little early. I’m just going to go ... out. Get some air.” He stood up, hoping she’d been adequately deflected.

He started to turn to leave when she said, “Oh my! Especially painful after getting stoned again, I guess?”

Garrus’ froze. Even the most colourful insects have venom, Garrus remembered.

“Excuse me?” he asked, trying to sound only mildly interested, turning around slowly.

 Still smiling brightly, she reiterated, “You get high alone in your room whenever you have a chunk of hours off-duty.” She frowned comically for a moment. "It's kind of sad, actually. You know there's a full bar on board, right?"

“I go out with Shepard --”

“Like I said," she added a flair of her hand for emphasis, draping herself over the couch delicately. "When you’re not on duty.”

“Spending time together is not a job --” Garrus cut himself off, awkwardly remembering that the root of Kasumi and Garrus’ camaraderie was “work” Shepard had assigned him.

“Ooh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, eyes sympathetic and understanding. “I know you think of her as a friend. I just mean, I assume you always talk work, one way or another.” Garrus tried not to dwell on the fact that Kasumi hadn’t said, _I know you two are friends_. Uncrossing his arms, Garrus sagged.

He should have denied it, he supposed. Getting defensive so quickly had basically confirmed her accusation, so if she hadn’t been completely sure before, she certainly would be now. Kasumi sensed his mood and patted the seat beside her, which Garrus accepted with a flop.

“How did you -- does everyone ...?” Garrus struggled to ask the question he was dreading.

“Does everyone know?” she finished for him kindly. “No, just me. It's pretty easy to slip past a door that's already open! A couple of times,” she added with the grace to look sheepish. Seeking redemption, she pointed out, "One time, you were so dead to the world I got rid of all the bugs in your room for you!" Garrus was not impressed.

Eyes darkening, he accused, “Sneaking into my room and spying on me, hmm? What other dirty secrets are you stowing away?”

With a coquettish smile, Kasumi said, “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t be so glum, Garrus. I like you. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. In fact, I can help you.”

“Yeah?” Garrus seethed through clenched teeth. “Going to put me in rehab, hold my hand during withdrawal tremors?”

“Actually, I was thinking you could use something stronger than that cough medicine Chakwas is giving you. I have plenty of contacts.”

Startled, Garrus asked suspiciously, “Why ... why would you do that?”

“I told you, silly. I like you. My contacts are trustworthy; they only sell clean goods. If you don’t get it from me, eventually, you’ll be buying it from some dirty volus dealer in the back of a disreputable pharmacy.”

“I like you too, Kasumi,” Garrus replied. “But I’m not an idiot. What do you want from me?”

“Well, since you asked,” Kasumi swayed, rocking side to side. It reminded Garrus of a very energetic bird trying to suck the nectar from a flower while in flight. “I’d be much obliged if you could convince Shepard to be my date.”

“Your date?”

“Yes, I have a big party coming up and she would just be the most _eye catching_ plus one.”

Garrus looked away from her, at the crowds of high-end fashion shoppers squabbling over sales items, thinking about how empty and unaware the galaxy appeared to be. All of these people could just carry on their day, with no concern at all for what was to come, while Garrus and the rest of the Normandy carried the burden of their ignorance. He _deserved_ a little comfort. But ... was he really going to do this? Recreational drugs weren’t illegal in the Hierarchy but ... Kasumi was offering to meet him at the top of a very steep slope. Did he trust himself to proceed with caution? It was balance precariously, he supposed, or go back to Chakwas with lame excuses for his always too-early finished pill bottles.

_Or_ , another voice said that sounded awfully like his father, _you could clean yourself up all together_. But that would mean more sleepless cycles, nightmares bleeding into day terrors bleeding into unfocused fighting ... it was dangerous and selfish of him to stop now; he just needed this for a little while. Just long enough to get through the suicide mission. He could stop anytime after that, he promised himself. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to, if it all went sideways.

“I’ll talk to her,” Garrus agreed slowly, wondering how Shepard would feel if she discovered that he was using her as leverage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” Thompson. “Too weird to live; too rare to die!”  
> “The Once and Future King,” White. “It is the bad people who need to have principles to restrain them.”  
> “In the Penal Colony,” Kafka. “My guiding principle is this: Guilt is never to be doubted.”


	9. The Theatre of Heroics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's out earlier than I thought, only because I might be out of town next weekend, which would mean another delay. It's also a longer chapter for that same reason; hope that suffices, to all of you wonderful people reading!
> 
> I am very curious to hear what you guys think of the flow of this chapter: I decided to try something a little different to cover more at once and also to keep a sense of mystery.

“Remind me again why we didn’t bring back up? Because I am pretty fucking sure I said we should bring back up,” Shepard seethed, dropping behind a cargo box to reload. A shot fired too close to her helmet and Shepard dropped even lower, cursing.

Miranda shrugged, “No, you asked if I would like back up. Had it been an order, I would certainly have complied, Commander.” Slamming a fresh thermal clip into her heavy pistol, Miranda risked standing up and firing three clean shots. The hailstorm of bullets stopped. Miranda slid over the cargo box and slinked forwards, keeping behind cover.

Running to catch up with her XO, Shepard grimaced. This had better be worth it; picking a mission that would clinch Miranda over recruiting a justicar, for fuck’s sake.

\

Lawson was already there when Shepard arrived, completely oblivious to the numerous heads that turned to drink in the sight of her as they passed by. A standard metric of attractiveness, indeed. Shepard grimaced, hoping she hadn’t made the wrong choice in company by leaving Garrus at the outdoor bar.

With a deep breath, Shepard put on her cockiest smirk and threw herself into the booth, across from Lawson. _Here we go_. Lawson glared at her, colder than the ice chinking in her scotch as she took a sip. “Shepard,” she greeted stiffly, raising her glass in greeting. “I started without you but I’m certain you’ll catch up in no time at all.”

“How about we skip the part where you passively aggressively question my competence and I aggressively question yours?” Shepard deadpanned.

Lawson was not amused. “I don’t believe you’re incompetent.”

“Right,” Shepard said, catching the eye of the server. “Just spasmodically violent. Pretty fancy way to describe completely fucking nuts.” She pointed at Lawson’s drink to the waiter and signalled for two more.

“Look,” Lawson sighed. “I didn’t agree to come out here for this. I know that you think I made you into some kind of Frankenstein--”

“You’re Frankenstein, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

The waiter interrupted then, a waddling volus, sliding their scotches off his tray. After he left, Shepard said, “Victor Frankenstein was the creator of the monster. I’d just be the Monster.” Shepard shrugged, taking her first sip, feeling the charcoal burn of whiskey on her tongue. “For the record, I don’t think my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid for the resemblance.”

Startled, Lawson stammered, “I ... I didn’t know you were so well read. That book is almost four hundred years old.”

Rolling the alcohol around her mouth, Shepard inquired, “Why? Because that wasn’t in the official Alliance records of me? Fuck, given you know all about how I grew up, I’d think you’d realize the only reason I’m not an illiterate retard is because I read. Try it some time; it might give you some personality.” Shepard was goading Lawson on purpose; she needed to know how much Lawson knew.

“I prefer to read useful things in my limited free time,” Lawson sneered back. “I just finished a sterling memoir from the lead archaeologist on the initial Martian Prothean excavation, as a matter of fact. Maybe I'll lend it to you; it might actually give you something productive to do while recreating.”

“Oh, yes, Lawson. Tell me about myself. Go on: I know you know everything about the great Commander fucking Shepard.”

“It’s a pathetically cliché story,” Lawson snapped, swirling her drink around. “Jay Shepard, born on Earth, grew up in an orphanage run by strict but kindly nuns, until she ran away and lived homeless during her early teens, yearning for freedom.” Lawson’s tone had become derisively dramatic and theatrical. With a sip of her drink, she continued, “The recently fractured Reds, having been subject to a series of high-profile arrests that crippled their budding galactic criminal empire, found her and exploited her for her innate biotic prowess. But with her noble heart, she persevered and Jay enlisted in the Alliance a mere year later: the very model of a young person turning their life around. An _inspiration_ , truly, to us all.”

Shepard started to clap slowly. “Incredible. An encore, madame, I _insist_.”

Lawson set the drink down and leaned in, devilish victory in her dark eyes. “I have one, don’t worry. Because that’s just the story the Alliance tells everyone. How do you feel about wolves these days, Jay?”

Shepard stopped clapping and clutched her glass tightly instead.

\

“Shepard! Get down!” Miranda pleaded. Ducking behind a fragile crate, Shepard craned her neck around to see what had Miranda worried. “We have to be careful with that many moving parts around! You can’t just biotically bludgeon your way through! You’ll get yourself killed!”

Shepard watched the conveyer belts and automated cranes dance their repetitive movements,  counting out the timing of their patterns.

“I thought you were tough shit, Lawson! How can you fear death?” _... four, five, six ..._ “That requires sufficiently clinging to life!” _Now!_   With an exhilarated howl, Shepard threw herself forwards between two cranes as they rotated on their axis's, leaving a small gap for a moment.

“I’d say you’re lucky that worked,” Miranda growled. “But I personally oversaw your reflex calibrations, so: you’re welcome.”

\

“The official version isn’t a lie,” Shepard replied slowly, carefully picking her words. “Just a simplification. Shouldn’t we be more simple and less vain?” Trying to keep the neutral tone, Shepard added, “Maybe it’s not so bad that everyone knows all that. We can all be a big, happy, honest family.”

“Please Shepard, don’t insult me. I’m a professional black ops agent,” Lawson replied dryly, quirking an eyebrow. “Just because we can hack and manipulate our way into the Alliance’s most classified documents doesn’t mean we send them as message attachments to all of Lazarus. What I told you is between the Illusive Man and I.”

So he knew, too. That would be dangerous and changed the playing field; the Illusive Man would know her psychological triggers. Did Miranda tell her on purpose, to win her trust, or was it a mistake, given Lawson’s rattled state? Shepard chewed her tongue, thinking.

“Obviously, the Illusive Man is like a father to you,” Shepard contended, going on the offensive. “You know what’s it’s like to be slapped around by someone you trust. Why do you put up with that bullshit, Lawson?”

Their glasses empty now, Lawson leaned out of the booth to signal the waiter for more -- and to buy some time before responding. “Whatever he said today,” Lawson began stoically, turning back in her seat. “He, at least, was right. My real father was much worse.”

“Yeah? More of an asshole than victim blaming his top agent after she was sexually tortured?”

Lawson tensed but didn’t look frightened or nauseous. A shadow came over her face, falling around her gracefully like the locks of hair around her shoulders. “You think that’s the worst that’s ever happened to me?”

\

“Can’t this elevator go any fucking faster?!” Lawson exclaimed, punching the panel and cutting the gentle music off. “How is it we can live in an age where we can shoot across the galaxy in hours, but we can’t invent something faster than a pulley-powered metal box to carry us up flights?”

“What the fuck do I look like, an engineer?” Shepard grumbled, holding her left bicep with her right hand while rolling her shoulder. She’d been hit with a nasty Throw by one of the Eclipse vanguards. “Calm the fuck down. Do you want a cig?”

Lawson half-groaned, half-screeched.

\

“Okay,” Shepard accepted, smoking now. “That doesn’t mean what happened to you back on Horizon doesn’t affect you at all. Given your particularly bitchy attitude lately, in fact, I’d say it’s affected you pretty damn hard.”

“Is this the part where you’re going to tell me you’re here if I need to talk?” Miranda guessed sarcastically.

Shepard laughed. “Shit, no, I’m awful. Even I wouldn’t talk to me.” She shifted so one foot was on the seat and she could rest her elbow on her knee; the other leg was curled inwards, her foot pressed into her groin. “But I could advance you some of your next paycheque, if you like, and you could get yourself a nice shrink.” It was a gamble, being so callous, but she sensed Lawson would appreciate being handled as anything other than fragile.

Lawson huffed a single, dark laugh. “You are an absolute horror, that’s true.” More seriously, Lawson looked up and met Shepard’s gaze. “I watched every interview, researched every article ... somehow, I thought working with Commander Shepard would be ... I don’t know. Gallant? Swashbuckling? I thought the biggest problem would be convincing you to work with us, not trying to hold you back. I’d ... convinced myself that I understood you: your scuffles with the press were the signs of a good soul cracking under pressure; the difficult decisions you made hunting Saren were calm, well-intentioned, thoughtful decisions --”

“They _are_ thoughtful. I know what I’m doing, Miranda.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly, dropping her gaze to the table, slumping forwards. Lawson’s guard seemed down. Glancing at her omni-tool, Shepard realized they’d been here for less than an hour and were already five drinks in a piece. Not so good; _pace yourself, woman_. “For someone so unapproachable and utterly unsociable, you seem to understand people very well. You knew what those men on Horizon would do: you warned me.”

Looking up at the ceiling, Shepard insisted, “They’d have done what they did no matter what.” She unleashed a stream of smoke into the air above them, watching it dissipate.

To her surprise, Lawson asked, “You don’t mind, do you?”, as she reached across the table to grab Shepard’s cigarettes. Without waiting for an answer, Lawson pulled one out and lit it with Shepard’s lighter. Exhaling smoke with a sigh, Lawson muttered, not meeting Shepard’s eyes, “Probably. Just wish I could wash the feeling of their hands off my skin.”

“Miranda --”

“Showered under the most scalding hot water I could, nearly tore my skin off with pumice, but --” She swallowed, reaching for her drink, downing it in one go.

“The Alliance is full of shitbags like that. It’s like giving frat boys guns,” Shepard said with a grimace, flagging the waiter down again. She suspected Lawson was going to need more liquid courage to keep talking.

“And yet you served with them,” Lawson replied with quiet anger. “Those were your brothers in arms, Shepard. Would you have died for them?”

“I’m not personally responsible for every terrible thing that every man of the Alliance has done,” Shepard returned, keeping the edge out of her voice.

“Like you’d have done any better,” Lawson spat, her anger finding a target. “Maybe you wouldn’t have joined in on the fun but you’d have watched, just to see someone suffer.” Shepard sighed; Lawson needed to lash out and no amount of tactical debate would quell her. Any words at all were likely to provoke her ire. Thankfully the volus was back around with two more scotches.

The air around them felt strangled, like a swell of pressure trying to burst into a storm. Lawson went quiet, nursing her drink and smoking for a while. Her eyes seemed so far way from the conversation she was having with Shepard; lines of disgust marred her expression, but whether they were self-directed or for the soldiers, Shepard wasn’t sure. Finally, Lawson said in a completely detached way, “He -- one of them, while he was -- he asked me how many Cerberus dogs I’d fucked, like that made it okay. If I got off on killing Alliance soldiers.” Her eyes darkened and she gave a short, sharp puff on her cigarette. “Like that justified it.” She gave a harsh laugh without humour. “He was the first one I killed as soon as I broke free.”

Shepard nodded, taking a mouthful of scotch and watching Lawson carefully.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Lawson demanded rhetorically. “Humanity has come so far. We can whip across the galaxy, we’ve settled other planets, we have diplomatic relations with _other intelligent civilizations_ and yet, you put a group of undisciplined, entitled young men together, and a pack of hyenas would have more decency. It might as well be the medieval times.”

“Yeah,” Shepard agreed. She put out her cigarette in the ashtray, twisting it.

“Like,” Lawson choked out, taking a drag off her cigarette. “Why do they -- it’s like, I wasn’t even a person to them, like you said. I ... It was a game to them: entertainment. I mean, they brought me to _the lounge_. Come here, boys: like I was a fucking case of beer they’d picked up. Dig in.” Lawson made a tight fist and pressed it against her mouth, shuddering. Shepard wondered how much it cost her to share this with her, to relive it aloud. “The way they just ... _jeered_ at me, god, it’s so humiliating because I know they’re shit excuses for human beings, and I know it’s not my fault and I made sure they remembered that, but ...” She looked at Shepard again, eyes glistening but not in tears. “It’s like you said. There’s probably a thousand others -- _soldiers_ \-- just like them out there, preying on people way less capable than me of escaping. It just ... god, makes it hard to believe we’re a galaxy worth saving, you know? The ‘advancement of humanity’ looks like a fucking joke to me right now.” Lawson squished her finished cigarette in the ash tray, wrapping her arms around herself protectively.

Shepard blinked. This was a serious crisis of faith for Miranda; that was as close to mocking the Illusive Man as Shepard had ever heard from her.

“We could just not,” Shepard proposed. She put two cigarettes in her mouth and lit them both. Handing one to Lawson, she said, “We could just say fuck it. Let the galaxy save itself after they’re done treating each other like shit.”

“Right. Run away and live like pirates.” Lawson gave her a sad, defeated smile that was somehow more depressing than anything else Shepard had witnessed from her. “I wish. But there are some people worth saving the galaxy for.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

\

“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up in poverty, Miri,” Niket protested, radiating affection and fear. Shepard tried not to roll her eyes. “You took away your sister’s chance at the best life possible without even consulting her. It wasn’t your call to make.”

“The best life possible?” Miranda hissed, dangerously low. “I thought you understood, Niket. You’ve obviously constructed some sort of delusional alternate history about my childhood.”

“What? No --” Niket stopped when Miranda raised the gun. “You have got to listen to me. No one knows about Oriana; I wanted this to be done safely and without trauma. Let me handle this; I have Oriana’s best interests at heart.”

“Miranda,” Shepard drawled, lazily inspecting her own gun. “The only interest this guy has is on the principle sum in his bank account, fattened up by your old man. Can we just get on with it?”

“I’ll miss you, Niket,” Miranda said. A single trigger pull and Niket was dead on the ground. “Not literally, of course.” 

“Stupid move, bitch,” the asari merc leader warned, powering up a Barrier. “Mr. Lawson’s paying me too much to go easy on you. Maybe once you’ve put some clothes on, we can go toe to toe, you little whore --”

Shepard Charged the asari merc and Miranda reacted quickly, Overloading the woman’s shields. Grabbing her head, Shepard fired a single shot into the disoriented asari’s temple. Blue skin and pink brain splattered everywhere, including Shepard’s hardsuit.

“Not an exactly an honourable way to engage an opponent,” Miranda remarked, calmly kicking a dismembered head tentacle off her foot.

“Give me a break, Lawson,” Shepard replied, flicking off a chunk of fleshy, slug-like brain matter from her chestplate. “Don’t you know honour is a leading cause of death?”

“Among which patient population, exactly?”

“The gullible brave?”

Miranda barked a harsh laugh.

\

When Shepard and Miranda got back to the docking bay after confirming Oriana’s safety, Shepard had anticipated seeing Garrus and his chosen recruitment squad, plus a new asari comrade. What she was not expecting was the distinct air of unease over the group, waiting by the Normandy. Garrus stepped forward from the group to hastily greet, “Okay, so, I tried to talk to her, to explain, but ...”

“What’s this about, Vakarian?” Shepard took off her helmet and started walking away, beckoning for Garrus and Miranda to follow her with a jerk of her head.

“It’s just, ah,” Garrus said, falling into stride. “Well ... Samara ... has heard of you.”

Shepard quirked an eyebrow at this, stopping a distance out of earshot from the others. “Obviously. Your point?”

Looking uncomfortable, Garrus explained, “Let’s just say: she thinks that at best, your honour as an outlaw is basically just staying alive.”

“Wow. You really hit the books, Vakarian,” Shepard commended, genuinely pleased for a second. Sighing, she ordered, “Well, it’s my ship, my rules --”

“You misunderstand; I won’t be joining you,” a feminine but deep voice rang. With the ageless, serene face of asari matriarchs, Samara walked towards them from the group. “Commander, I fear that your methods are careless, needlessly endangering innocent lives. I cannot abide by your rule.”

“What? But you’re a justicar. You’re all about ruthless pursuits of justice,” Miranda scoffed.

If Samara was offended by this comment, she didn’t show it. “There is a difference, young ones. As a justicar, my oath demands I protect the defenseless. This is not your aim.”

“Oh?” Shepard prompted, maintaining a tone of polite curiosity. “And what is my aim, then?”

“Your own interests, Commander,” Samara answered blandly. “You seek only to further your position in the galaxy, to amass power and subdue those that oppose you. While this occasionally gives you the appearance of someone who pursues a righteous path, truthfully, I believe you only do so when it is convenient to you. That is not our way.”

Stunned silence. A hundred counter-arguments flooded Shepard but she clenched her jaw, damming them. This wasn’t about a political, philosophical debate. To truly win, she had to find a way to convince Samara to join them.

Turning to Garrus, Samara offered a bow. “Thank you for your help today. I will not forget your selflessness.” She began walking away.

An idea occurred to Shepard just then, for better or worse. She grabbed Garrus’ arm, who shot her a furious look, realization dawning in his eyes. Ignoring it, she called out after the retreating justicar: “Maybe you don’t trust me. But what about Archangel? Do you know what he believes? What he accomplished?”

Samara paused, turning around. “Archangel; yes, I have heard this name. A guardian to the people of Omega, light in the darkest places.” She took a few steps back towards them, attention on Garrus now. “That was you, yet you said nothing? Such humility.”

Looking away with profound shame, Garrus bit out the words, “Yes. That was me. And I failed, so don’t get too excited.” Oh, this was just perfect. Garrus’ self-loathing would really sell this; then Shepard realized that Garrus wasn’t putting on a show. 

"Yet despite what you see as a failure, you will continue to pursue these Collectors, undaunted in your desire to protect those that need protection the most." Garrus had no reply; his disgrace was painted on him more clearly than his clan markings and Shepard felt oddly uneasy.

But everything fell into place when Samara put a hand on Garrus face, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. Shepard forgot all about her exploitation of Garrus, feeling ravenous satisfaction at watching her predictions play out. “May I?” Samara gently asked; Garrus nodded consent. Samara’s eyes glowed like white-hot flames and Garrus maintained eye contact. For a moment, Shepard was captivated by the fierceness on Garrus’ face, unflinching while she knew Samara poured into his being, her mind caressing every corner of his.

When her eyes returned to normal, Samara said softly, “You have a good heart, Garrus Vakarian, but there is much poison in you.” Samara leaned over and whispered something only he could hear and Garrus’ eyes widened. Shepard sucked in her breath: wait, what did that mean? Was this not going to work?

But Samara dropped to one knee in front of Garrus and said, “Your mission is worthy. For you, Garrus, I will swear an oath and serve. Your choices are my choices; your morals, my morals.” Her body glowed with biotic energy; getting back to her feet, Samara warned Shepard, “And his leaders are my leaders. So long as you have Garrus’ loyalty, you have mine, Commander. I will set up on the Normandy.” She walked up the ramp to board the ship, everyone else following suit but Shepard hung back.

Miranda paused beside Shepard to breathe, “Nicely done,” before continuing onwards to the ship. Even Shepard was impressed with herself; that had gone better than better than she hoped. 

\

All in all, it had been a very good day and dusk was starting to take over. On the elevator to her room, Shepard started to plan the next day. Thane Krios was going to attempt an assassination at Dantius towers tomorrow night, based on their intel. Maybe after they got Thane they could take an extra day in Illium; the Illusive Man had yet to provide the third dossier, anyways.

When she strode into her cabin, there was a box on her bed. Pulling off her gauntlets, she opened it up, taking out three dresses. All black, all very expensive looking, three different levels of modesty. There was a note from the Illusive Man: _Shepard, I think it’s time we meet in person. I’ve made private reservations at Larbani’s tonight for 19:00 Illium Standard Time. I’ve saved you the trouble of shopping for something to wear._

He really was trying to turn her into a puppet, dressing her up like a doll; pretty fucking weird, even by Shepard's standards. At the same time, meeting him in person would be an invaluable opportunity to learn something about her opponent, especially after what Miranda had told her. Stripping down to her sports bra and under-armour spandex shorts, thinking she’d shower and try on the dresses, EDI’s voice announced: “Commander Shepard, Garrus Vakarian is requesting permission to enter your cabin.”

This was odd and unprecedented, given the bugs in her room. She thought back to yesterday and how deftly he’d handled her at the bar. Truthfully, Shepard suspected she was more cognisant of Garrus’ tactical approach than he had been. But Anderson induced a unique misery in Shepard; she’d already known that she’d made a terrible mistake in throwing Spectre status back in his face, and had welcomed the conciliatory ego-stroking. “Let him in, EDI.”

The doors hissed open and Garrus walked in. His eyes took in the lavish, oversized space and he hummed the equivalent of a whistle.

Despite her undressed state, Shepard crossed her arms confidently and commanded, “Speak up, Vakarian. What do you need?”

No longer examining the room, his eyes focused on her. Then quickly averted away. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t realize -- I can leave ... You should have told me to wait ...”

“You don’t get to walk into my cabin and tell me what I should do,” Shepard teased, flopping onto the leather sofa, draping her arms over the top. “Come here and talk or get out.”

He moved to stand towering in front of her, still in full armour, and Shepard was reminded of how much bigger he seemed than before. Even his stance had changed; two years ago this would have been a subordinate standing before his superior; now, it seemed defiant. Raising an eyebrow, she prodded, “Is this about Samara? Look, I don't care who she's sworn an oath to, I trust you, all right? There’s no question she’ll be a huge asset to the team. By bringing her on board, Garrus, you’re making this team stronger. Less likely to lose people; more likely to succeed. You were great, okay?”

“Thanks, Shepard,” Garrus replied coldly, not sounding thankful at all. He took another step closer, so his knees almost touching the couch, and craned his neck to look down at her with an unreadable expression. “But this isn’t about Samara, as happy as I am that you’re still finding uses for Archangel.”

“I am a resourceful woman, what can I say?” He was very close. He did not need to be this close. But Shepard refused to move, not wanting to surrender an inch of territory.

“This is about Goto.”

“What does she want?”

“She has a party coming up and she wants you to accompany her,” he drawled, moving out of her space when he noticed her liquor cabinet. He poured her a drink, nothing for himself, and brought it to her. “I’d advise you to do so. It’s very important to her.”

Shepard accepted the drink silently, bemused at his behaviour. Clearly, he was unhappy with her but couldn’t afford to be, as he needed something from her. His resulting behaviour was cold but courteous. She wasn’t sure what to think.

Shepard took a sip of spiced rum, watching Garrus wonder her room. His attention zeroed in on the dresses still sprawled over the bed. “It appears you already have the outfit for it,” he said dryly, delicately lifting the most scandalous dress. “Where’s the rest of this one?” How interesting, this new careless confidence of his that enabled him to stroll about her room, picking through her things -- _Oh shit. The note!_

Jumping to her feet, Shepard ducked past him and plopped down on the bed, sitting on the other dresses and the note. She leaned back on one hand, swirling her drink with her other. With an intentionally coy tilt to her head, she dared him: “What’s it to you? I’ve gone out in a lot less than that.” He dropped the garment over her bare abdomen, looking uncomfortable.

“So what’s the occasion?” He was refusing to look at her now. “Because I hope they dressed for a date, too. Hate to see you embarrassed, that’s all.” _The Illusive Man is always dressed for a date._  Probably not the best response. An old memory stirred in Shepard, of Anderson of all people, and something he’d once told her.

“Occassion? Garrus, one might stand on the brink of disaster but they are still obliged to dress for dinner.” She flashed him a smile that was more predatory than charming. “I’ll go to her damn party, all right? Are we done here or were you hoping to watch me finish getting undressed?”

He started backing away, all swagger shattered at her brazen forwardness. “No, um -- that’s great, I’ll, ah, I’ll let her know.” Reaching the stairs, he turned and practically fled from her room, as she’d expected he would. She did not, however, expect to feel as inexplicably disappointed as she did. But she did not stew on this matter as she got ready for the Illusive Man, plotting. Fresh from the shower, Shepard inspected the dresses: _and thus I clothe my naked villainy_ , she thought. She just had to decide if she would play this as a saint or a devil.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> "Frankenstein, or, the Modern Prometheus," Shelley. "My form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance.”  
> “The Three Musketeers,” Dumas. “I do not cling to death sufficiently to fear death.”  
> “Profession of Faith of a Savoyard Vicar,” Rousseau. “Or rather, let us be more simple and less vain.”  
> “Outlaws of Sherwood,” McKinley. “My honour as an outlaw concerns staying alive.”  
> “April Lady”, Hayette. “Though one might stand on the brink of a deep chasm of disaster, one is still obliged to dress for dinner.”  
> “Richard III,” Shakespeare. “And thus I clothe my naked villainy ... and seem a saint, when I mostly play the devil.”


	10. Zombies in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! As my humble apology, please accept a slightly longer chapter than normal. ALSO if it's any consolation, this chapter is a perfect example of how amazing my readers are, because it represents a pretty important plot change I made to accommodate requests/comments from previous chapters. I'm going to let you guess that change!
> 
> Trigger warning, maybe? Some pretty fucked up sexual encounters -- not explicitly non consensual but perhaps ... dubious consent. Or just poor life choices. I've never written sexual content before so both negative and positive feedback is much appreciated.

Shepard had come to the unhappy conclusion that she needed to get laid. Badly.

It had started with her appointment with the Illusive Man. True to his word, he’d booked them a private room -- as in, the whole restaurant was on reserve and they were being served by the head chef himself, who it turned out was good friend of the Illusive Man's. Out of sheer defiance, Shepard had worn none of the dresses, opting instead for black jeans, a white tank and a bomber jacket. He said nothing on this point.

They were well into the main course and Shepard was on her fourth glass of wine, feeling relaxed. The whole dinner had been -- fuck, it was nice. The Illusive Man was intelligent, eloquent and courteous but just mysterious enough to be interesting. It was a delicate dance, a game they played, and Shepard would be damned to admit that she didn’t enjoy it.

“Shepard,” he replied, his icy, inhuman eyes focused on her. “There’s no control chip in you. I need you to be able to make choices. What kind of man would I be, if I didn’t respect the most human quality of them all: free will?” She let her gaze sweep over him, admiring the perfect shade of purple lining his white shirt, the conservative yet fashionable dark grey of his dinner jacket.  

“Only on Earth is there talk of free will,” she mused, taking a swig from her glass. “Free will means we’re judged by our intentions, _Illusive Man_.” Trying to remember she came here to gather information, not debate philosophy, she added: “Am I ever going to get a real name, by the way? Calling you that seems so egotistical that it’s beneath you.”

He gave a low chuckle. “Maybe. Do you doubt my intentions?” he asked, pushing away his empty dinner plate, taking the napkin off his lap and dropping it on the table.

“Doubt?” she repeated rhetorically, mimicking his actions. “No, I think you’ve been perfectly frank in you intentions. It’s more like I fundamentally disagree.”

The Illusive Man rested his elbows on the table, folding his hand together, studying her before responding: “Yet here you are, dining with the me when I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere else. Another demonstration that you are able to make the smartest, most difficult decisions, even when they appear unattractive.” He put his hand on her thigh and Shepard flexed but didn’t otherwise react. “Our partnership would be far less impressive if you were more complacent. Make no mistake; I admire your tenacity.” What was he doing? Was this affectionate, possessive or ... suggestive? While she mulled this over, the Illusive Man sighed, bored. “To be honest, I don’t have much of a sweet tooth myself. How about we skip dessert?”

“And get to what, exactly?”

He took his hand away and Shepard was surprised by the mournful hymn singing against her skin, loudest where his hand had been. “I have a fully stocked bar. You’ll find I’m an excellent host.”

Holy shit; he was inviting her back to his place. Maybe he’d let his guard down, let something slip, if they kept drinking. But then again ... no. She didn’t _have_ to do anything, she could easily leave whenever she wanted. (Would she want to leave? Shepard squashed that voice down).

After a drive in a car with blackened windows, they arrived. While he mixed drinks, she took off her jacket and studied her environment: the condo unit was spacious, exquisitely decorated and looked like it hadn’t been touched in months. It was also very dark, windows closed off. The Illusive Man had removed his jacket, partly untucked his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, casual elegance personified. He joined her on the leather couch with two martini glasses. Handing her one, he sat down beside her but sideways so he could face her.

Shepard commented, “Quite the place.” She laid one palm on the couch and crossed her legs, swirling her drink. He was watching her too closely for her comfort. “I’d say that I love the view but I’m guessing it’d take me two hours to hack the window panel controls.”

He gave a small, conspiratorial smile and got up again, moving to the panel. He punched in a key code and the panels slid open from floor to ceiling, revealing the glittering, sprawling metropolis of Nos Astra beneath them. “Okay, I take it back,” Shepard admitted, genuinely impressed when she walked to the window wall and leaned on the grand piano. “It’s a fucking amazing view.”

“You like it?” He shrugged carelessly, leaning against the window wall, drink in hand. Dead serious, he proposed, “You can have it.”

“Ha -- no thanks, Mephistopheles,” she said, looking out the window instead of at him. It was easier to not pay attention to how in shape he was, how perfectly part of his crisp shirt was tucked flat into the front of his pants. “It’s a little too swanky for me.” The gears in Shepard's head felt clogged by booze and ... something she'd rather not admit.

“The way you waltzed into our dinner dressed like that --” He waved his glass at her. “I didn’t think you’d ever feel out of place anywhere.”

She grinned cheekily at him. “Little victories, you know? Why? Were you hoping I’d come in that scrap of cloth you sent my way?” Oh fuck -- was she...? Yes, she was definitely flirting. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, punishing herself.

“I figured you wouldn’t; I might not be omniscient but I know a lot.” Shepard cringed, covering it with a gulp of her martini, the bitters coating her tongue. He walked towards her so they were only a foot apart but she still refused to turn and look at him. “If I had any control over you at all, I wouldn’t have erred on the side of such modest outfits.”

Disgusted by this casual flaunting of his ownership over her, she said dryly, “Charming. I can be another genetically enhanced sex toy in a billionaire playboy’s collection.”

The Illusive Man’s eye narrowed. “I assume you’re referring to Lawson. Don’t be obscene, Shepard.” He rested his finished drink on the piano and pulled out a silver cigarette case, offering her one. Despite craving a smoke, she refused. Sighing, the Illusive Man added while lighting his smoke,  “Miranda looks up to me as a surrogate father to compensate for her own. I wouldn’t take advantage of that trust.”

“But that graciousness doesn’t extend to me.”

“With you? Why, Shepard,” he feigned surprise, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I wasn’t aware that we were so close. My mistake.” With sudden intensity, he took a few steps so she had to back up against the window. A tremor ran through her and Shepard realized she wasn’t scared -- she was _thrilled_. The smell of expensive cologne and tobacco filled her senses and Shepard quite liked it.

“I think we’re plenty close enough.” She was proud of her ferocious tone instead of breathy croon that her body demanded, warmth spreading through her. “Close enough to go on a suicide mission at your behest. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Shepard, we’re just scratching the surface of what we could accomplish together. The Collectors -- the Reapers -- are the greatest threat we’ve ever known, and that means the greatest opportunity. Humanity should be the one to capitalize on it because we’re the only ones that _can_.”

“The other races would be so happy to hear that.” In just a tank top, she could feel the cold glass of the window pressed against her flesh. Shepard finished her drink and he took it from her, dropping it next to his on the piano.

“They are remarkable in their own ways but none possess the industry that we do; the leadership, the ability to find success in the most adverse situations. People like us -- you and me, Shepard -- embody that truth. They needed us to save them against Sovereign.” One hand in his pocket, he looked at her intently. “I’m not saying the other races don’t have a place in the new galactic order. I’m saying that humanity should be leading the way for everyone’s -- including all organics’ -- benefit.”

Holding his cigarette between his teeth, he brought both hands to her hips, turning her around so she was pressed against the glass face-first. One hand remained on her left hip while he stood behind her. Shepard fought down a squirm: _touch_ , god, any touch at all felt so good.

“Our existence is so fleeting, so fragile, Jay,” he began, taking a drag on his smoke. “If we want to matter at all, if humanity wants to leave it’s mark on history, then we have to be innovative and fearless. Otherwise, the Reapers will wipe us out and it might as well be that we never existed as all.” She had no reply.

“Do you read Twain?” he asked. Shepard tensed and he felt it, digging his hand deeper into her hip. _Of course_ she’d read Twain: she could remember long nights at the orphanage, inspired by the cleverness of Sawyer and Finn, their wit and humour like a cheery flame in a dull, lifeless place. There was no way he could know that; fuck, this was pure intellectual symmetry. Then he tapped ashes off his cigarette and wrapped an arm around her to put it in her mouth. The intimacy and boldness of this act electrified her and she accepted, letting his cigarette in and his thumb brushed her lower lip. He rested his hands on her shoulders.

“It’s just as he says,” he declared, pulling her hair away from her ear to lean in and quote: “There is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream—a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought—a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities.” Pretty depressing shit; it reminded Shepard very vividly of the images burned into her mind from the Prothean beacon on Eden Prime.

Shepard turned back around, the smoke out between her index and middle finger, folding one arm across her chest and resting the other’s elbow on it. The living room was lit only by the shimmering, shifting light of the city, casting an ephemeral glow into his cybernetic blue eyes. “I have no body, no blood, no bones,” Shepard muttered back, taking a long inhale. Most days, she was okay. Most days, she accepted that she was a semi-autonomous, half-machine _thing_ brought back to fight the bad guys because the rest of these fucking jokers were useless without her. Most days. “I am but a thought.”

“It bothers you, what you are.” It wasn’t a question. He leaned in closer, one hand flat against the glass on either side of her, pinning her in place. Shepard realized that he was pleasantly taller than her.

“I’m alive,” she replied coldly, tilting her head to the side to exhale smoke away from their faces. Lifting one hand, he took the cigarette from her and stubbed it in the ashtray beside them.

When he leaned back in, he was even closer. “Unbeing dead isn’t the same as being alive.”

Too many drinks and an immense, empty sadness in her and an uncalled for bout of nostalgia ... Suddenly her lips were on his, hungrily seeking entry and he let her in, teeth tugging at her lower lips. Even when she embraced his head with her arms, dragging him closer, she was aware that this was probably what he’d planned all along. Charm her through dinner, cozy up back at his place; a perfect, timeless courtship that she’d seen coming and hadn’t bothered to stop.

She felt his hands move, shifting under her thighs so he could lift her up with surprising strength. Not wanting to pull away, knowing that sense would kick in and the moment would be over, Shepard refused to break their kiss and wrapped her legs around his waist. In a strange way, she respected that he didn’t see himself as being above a bargaining chip, offering himself as easily as he offered material goods and luxury experiences.

Supporting her with hands under her thighs, he staggered with her wrapped around him back to the couch. The whole time, it was all tongue and mouth and teeth, furious and demanding, devouring each other rather than exploring. He dropped onto the couch so she was straddling him now, his hands slipping up her shirt just enough to brush the flesh above her pantline. Groaning, Shepard pushed her pelvis into him and arched back, letting him work on her neck while she fantasized about the night ahead ...

Their ego struggles would probably translate spectacularly in bed; it would be a power play, pressing in with fingers and lips and tongues, each seeking each other’s tender points and ravenously exploiting them, writhing and tumbling between satin sheets ...

He brought his mouth to her collarbone, biting hard and eliciting a shudder from her. Bending back even farther, in a great display of flexibility, Shepard’s back was flat on his thighs and she was upside down while his hands roamed up the chest she was brandishing at him. It was when his hands slid a little too high, slipping under her bra and thumbs brushing her nipples, that Shepard became sharply aware of just what she was doing and with whom. Oh fuck, for fuck’s sake, _no_ \-- she could not let him have this over her. Stupid, _stupid_ idea from a stupid woman.

“I’m not doing this,” she heaved suddenly, grabbing his wrists to wrench herself back up. Sliding backwards off the couch to get to her feet, she managed a sardonic, “I’ll stick to figuratively getting in bed with the devil.”

“So it would appear,” he replied smoothly. He picked up her jacket from the couch and stood up, holding it open for her. He didn’t look the least bit concerned at her rejection while she warily accepted his gesture, sliding into her jacket one arm at a time. He lifted her hair out of the collar for her.

Mustering her most callous tone, she commanded, “If you’re just about done trying to bed me, I’d like to go home.”

“As you wish.” She turned away to catch the door panel but he caught her arm, turning her back towards him. “Nothing that happened tonight affects how I view you, Shepard.”

“Sure thing, Illusive Man.”

“Jack.” He gave her a curious look. “In private, you can call me Jack.” In an unprecedented display of self-consciousness, he ran a hand through his hair. “We’ll do this again sometime. I don’t expect anything from you, obviously, other than exquisite conversation over decent wine.” Confidence back, he pulled another cigarette out and added with a small smile, “Should it suit you, of course. Sleep well, Shepard.”

Chauffeured in a private car he’d had ready for her, she spent the drive wondering if she should have stayed, hating herself for not caring all that much where it would have led.

\

The next day, still reeling with silent agony from her date, she met Thane Krios. Svelte Thane, the way he descended like a phantom from above Nassana Dantius at the top of the tower. Garrus stiffened considerably beside her, probably displeased with the drell’s dramatic entrance.

She remembered a drell she’d hooked up with once, on shore leave while still in the N program. She’d met him him in a stardust den -- a shady gathering for enthusiasts of a relatively harmless hallucinogenic drug -- and had been drawn into the black holes of his eyes (blazing as she was, she had been sure that she was actually falling through space and time). He’d seduced her with the promise that even just tasting his flesh would give her a new high and stumbling back to his cramped, herbal apartment, running her tongue over every inch of him, she had learned delightfully that he wasn’t lying.

She tried to push this memory from her mind while following Thane’s every movement.

“A suicide mission?” he hummed to himself after she made her pitch, looking out the tower windows. She crossed her arms, trying not to pay too much attention to the skin-tight leather that showed off perfectly toned muscles. “Yes ... a suicide mission will do nicely. I will accompany you. No charge.” When she reached out a hand, he grabbed it with both of his, lingering too long. She wondered if he’d let her get high off of him before they plunged through the Omega-4 Relay. _No, this is not a good galaxy for psychedelics_ , she thought miserably, thinking of her increasingly fucked up sex life. _Reality itself is too twisted._

“Get your things on the Normandy, then,” Garrus interrupted, unable to hide his irritation. Shepard watched Thane lithely leave the room. When he was out of earshot, Garrus scowled. “Don't forget to pick your jaw up off the floor, Shepard.”

“Only if you remember to use yours to keep your mouth shut, Vakarian.”

But the words lacked edge, Shepard still staring after where Thane had disappeared like a sinister shadow, thinking of his hands. When was the last time she’d really given to someone’s touch, luxuriating in the flesh of another without concern or boundaries?

\

That wasn’t even the worst of it. The next day, Shepard found herself nearly naked in Donovan’s Hock bed, having just sent him a rather racy photo of her current position. While Kasumi cloaked and hid, a very angry Hock stood at the foot of the bed, pointing a gun at her.

“Make your case why I shouldn’t fuck you with this gun till you bleed, Ms. Gunn.”

“First off, my name isn’t Allison Gunn. It’s Jay Shepard.” In her hidden earpiece, she heard Kasumi hiss in displeasure. Shepard hadn’t exactly briefed her on the specifics of her plan.

“They said the Butcher was back and the Alliance kicked you out. I figured there was something off about you. Isn’t Cerberus taking care of you now? Sucking the Illusive Man’s cock?”

Forcing a smile to her face, she answered, “Was. You really think Commander Shepard would take orders from anyone? I’ve gone rogue.”

“I’m listening, Shepard. Need a job?”

“Actually,” she sneered coldly, letting the blanket fall back and exposing her bare breasts. She knew that with her hard muscles, eerie scars and above all, her reputation, she’d never seduce a man with coy submissiveness. She had to work her main asset; she was a challenge, a prize to be won, a status to be conquered. Right up Hock’s alley, if she had guessed him right. “I was. Just for the night, though.” He quirked an eyebrow but his eyes were focused on her chest now. “I’m a little pressed for cash these days. So for ten thousand credits, I can make your night.”

His eyes shot back to her face. “Ten thousand? You’ve got to be joking. No whore’s worth that much.” He came closer to her, lowering the gun. “Especially not a dead one.”

“Think about, Hock,” she reasoned, leaning back, elongating her torso. “Ten thousand credits and you get to tell the world you had the Butcher of Torfan, the Saviour of the Citadel, writhing underneath you all night, doing everything you asked.” His smirk broadened. “How about a little sampler before you decide?”

He wasn’t her type; a little too soft, too needy, with suits that tried too hard to be trendy. But he said into his omni-tool, “Don’t disturb me for the next fifteen minutes. Tell my guests I’m taking an important call.”

Perfect. Roughly, he pulled the blanket off, moving on top of her, burying his face in her neck. To her surprise, despite the lack of attraction, Shepard had to suppress a moan at the sensation. Holy shit, this was getting out of hand. Donovan Hock came up for air, grinning wolfishly, and behind him Shepard saw a chair float seemingly on its own and crash on his head, knocking him out.

Shepard rolled off the bed and unsheathed her omniblade. Without hesitation, she pushed it into the unconscious man’s throat, blood spurting and soaking the white sheets.

“There was no need to kill him, Shepard,” Kasumi asked, maintaining a tone of quiet inquisition.

Looking around for her underwear and dress, she said, “Good idea. Let’s leave the well-connected millionaire criminal alive to stew in his anger and hunt us down. That’ll end well, I’m sure.” She pulled her clothes on. “Now get some DNA from him and let’s go.”

In the next fifteen minutes, Kasumi and Shepard pulled off the heist without a hitch, aside from the embarrassing moistness between Shepard’s legs. Had she really gotten turned on so easily?

\

Poor Kaidan didn’t stand a chance.

Shepard was still seething from her meeting with Anderson in a bar on the Citadel, only hours after her uncomfortable meeting with Donovan Hock. Anderson barely looked her in the eye, guarded and distant, but he’d agreed to get her Spectre status back before leaving the bar.

Kaidan shouldn’t have messaged her at that exact moment. It was his own damn fault. _I’m sorry for what happened on Horizon_ , his message read. _I need to see you again. No arrests this time, promise. Asslan’s Room at 20:00, if you want to talk, I’ll be there._

Asslan’s Room turned out to be a pounding loud, smoke filled club in the lower wards. Finding him at the bar with a beer, Shepard plopped down on a stool and sneered, “Wow, look at you. All grown up. Did they run out room at the ice cream parlour?”

His grip tightened on his bottle and he took a swig, not looking at her. “I came here,” he said through gritted teeth. “To apologize about what happened to your squad. I saw ... the tapes. They shouldn’t have done that. It was out of line.”

“Which? The raping or the shooting your friend in the face?”

“Both, Jay --”

“Both of which occurred while you were feeling me up in your room. I’m not surprised your men behaved like they did, given the example you set. Tell me,” she paused to switch to a voice of facetious curiosity. “The last time you guys did a train on a girl, do officers go last, like how they eat after their squad in the mess hall?”

“Jesus, Jay!” He exclaimed, looking sick. “How can you ask me that? I would _never_ , you know ... How can you be so cavalier? Isn’t sex anything to you? Weren’t _we_ anything to you?”

Rolling her eyes, she answered: “Fuck, Kaidan. I liked you fine, all right? But I wasn’t in love with you or anything; get over it. Do you buy flowers for your hand every time you jack off, too?”

He got up from his stool. “I’ve said my piece, Jay. I’m done.” He walked away, weaving his way through the crowd. Shepard jumped out of her seat and followed after him, tasting adrenaline that was a welcome change from the misery Anderson had left her with.

Catching up with him, she grabbed his arm and yanked him aside. “Jay!” he hissed, pulling his arm free. “I’m fucking serious.”

“You mean you need a serious fuck.”

His expression was stricken at her proposal. Then he shook his head. “No. You need help, Jay.”

His accusation annoyed Shepard and she pushed him into the bathroom door a few feet away. He tried to protest but with a hard shove, they were in a cubicle together. “Say that again,” she dared, blocking the cubicle door, locked behind her. The only light came from a flickering, broken bulb in the centre of the bathroom and it smelt of piss and vomit. The throb of rave music pounded around them, muted only slightly by the bathroom door that kept swinging open and close as patrons came and left.

“You need help,” he repeated firmly, looking her in the eye. Sighing, his shoulders sagged, and he added helplessly, “I thought I could help you, Jay. You were doing ... so well. I thought I was getting through to you. Jay, please, let me in. Let me help you.”

So much fucking judgement. She grabbed the lapel of his jacket, forcing him to look up. “I’m always happy to let you in, you know that.” She yanked him close and he shot his hands out to the side walls, holding himself back.

“It’s not happening, Jay.”

“Why? Not interested?” She dropped his jacket then scooted under his outstretched arms, sitting on the toilet seat. “Thought you found me beautiful.” He winced at the reference to his prior humiliation. Shepard’s smirk grew. No amount of soft manicured hands or strong Irish accents or deep drell eyes could beat _this:_ this intense rush of power that came from stringing him along exactly like she wanted.

“I do --”

“-- if you don’t want to, then just leave,” she snapped, crossing her arms, knowing full well he wouldn’t dare.

He took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to leave. Can we continue this conversation somewhere else?”

“I don’t want to talk, Kaidan.” She tilted her head, looking up at his, and pulled him closer by hooking her fingers in his belt loops. His cock was at mouth level and she leaned forwards, pressing kisses against it through the fabric of his pants. With a jerk, he gasped at her actions and steadied himself with a hand on each of her shoulders. “Come on. Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love, you know?”

“Don’t!” And his resolve was cracking again, she could tell from the way he looked anywhere but at her. “Don’t talk like that. What we had wasn’t just ...”

“An easy fuck? Obviously,” she grinned up at him, starting to unbuckle his belt and he looked uneasy. “Oh, sweetheart. I know it’s all rose-petal bedsheets and candles with you, Alenko. Is that how you took that Brain Camp girl’s virginity, too? Did she give you her special gift?”

“Don’t bring that up. I never --”

“-- deflowered her?” She laughed, cruel and unkind. Deftly she slipped a hand through his unzipped fly, feeling him harden. He threw his head back and groaned, hands grabbing her hair. Still playing with him, she continued, sounding very uninterested: “Ah well, too bad. I’m sure Commander Vyrnnus was pleased when he found her pure and untouched.”

“Stop it. I am fucking serious. Cut it out.” Reaching through the slit in his briefs, she pulled his erect member out, running her thumb over the tip and feeling it moisten.

She paused to ask innocently. “I wonder how big turian dicks are, you know? I’ve never fucked one. Do you think she liked it, his hard plates against her soft, perfumed skin --”

“Jay!” He shuddered, grabbing her wrists. “Do you get off on hurting people? I ...”

“Or maybe ...” _Do you get off on killing Alliance soldiers?_ Wanting to hurt Kaidan, thinking of his part in that whole disaster, she squeezed a little too tightly on his cock and hissed, “Maybe Vyrnnus took a leaf out of your book. Maybe he called her into his room, told her if she wanted to use her hands, he’d give her something to use them on. Maybe she cried, told him she’d never done it before, told him she was was scared --”

“What do you want from me?” he exclaimed, pulling away and out of reach, flustered. She got up, grabbing his hands to stop him from zipping his pants up.

“I wanted a good fuck,” she mocked. “But I’m settling for a mediocre one. Can you deliver? Or have you forgotten how --” He grabbed her, shoving his lips harshly against hers. Took him long enough, she thought, pressing her lips back, tasting his defenses shattering. When they came up for air, Shepard breathed, “Still want to leave, then? Would you mind telling the bartender I’m back here, all horny, fired up and ready to go, if he’s looking for a quick --”

Kaidan spun her around and pushed her over, so she had to rest her hands on the toilet. She noticed the walls were covered in colourful graffiti, the grout between tiles sticky with black mould and dirt. So maybe he had some balls after all, Shepard thought with satisfaction when he yanked her pants down. Then he hesitated, unsure.

“Well? Do it!” she jeered. “What are you waiting --”

She was cut off by the sudden slam inside of her and she gasped, pleased. He pulled back out, hands gripping her hips firmly to force her closer against him. “You have to keep going, remember?” Another rough slam at her words, more spiteful than the last. She laughed, her arms quivering to keep her up from the delighted sensations running through her at his exertion. “Unless you come even faster than before, and that would be something --”

Kaidan let out a dangerous combination of a growl and roar, pumping faster and harder now, his fingers digging bruisingly hard into her hips as he thrust. Kaidan Alenko didn’t do this; he did not meet in grimy, sketchy clubs in disreputable wards, hate-fucking his dead ex-girlfriend. But here he was, struggling to come joylessly inside of her, and Shepard felt as empty and powerful as a hurricane.

\

Afterwards, strolling alone back to the Normandy, a cigarette between her teeth and hands in her pockets, Shepard got a call.  

“Shepard,” Garrus’ voice greeted. “We’ve got the last dossier, a distress call from Haestrom. It’s Tali.” Shepard paused, tempted to tell him that she didn’t give a shit, thinking bitterly of Freedom’s Progress. Garrus knew of their encounter and must have anticipated this, because he quickly added, “She’s the best engineer in the galaxy, Shepard. There’s nothing she can’t hack or build. We could use her.” _Ah, Garrus._

“Yeah, all right. I’ll be back in fifteen. Have Lawson start preparations to leave,” she agreed wearily, suddenly immensely tired. Punishing Kaidan had taken more out of her than she’d thought it would.

On cue, Garrus asked, “You sound exhausted. Busy night?”

“I fucked some loser in the bathroom of a truly dirty-ass club,” she replied casually. It felt good to say it; to own it. She waited, more nervous than she’d expected to be, for his reaction.

He huffed a laugh, the bi-vocal sound tickling her ear. “That doesn’t sound sanitary. Was he any good, at least?”

“Not even remotely.”

Another chuckle. “If environmental hazards during intercourse are your thing, Solus has some pretty weird stuff going on his lab. You might even grow an extra limb if you roll over the wrong beaker.”

She smiled though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Vakarian, you sly bastard. How’d you seduce Mordin?” She tapped ashes off the end of her cigarette. “Or were you making an offer?”

If it’d been in person, he might have been flustered. Instead, at this safe distance, he answered wryly, “You know me, Shepard. I’m a big fan of experiments.”

She blinked, startled, and then laughed, feeling more relaxed than anything she’d felt in days. “Sure, Garrus. For science.” He laughed then too, a lightness swelling between them. The rest of her walk back was considerably better. Fucking Kaidan had been a waste of time that provided only momentary amusement. She should have just hit a tavern with Garrus, she decided regretfully. At least his company was a good time with a lingering buzz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “Slaughterhouse Five,” Vonnegut. “Only on Earth is there talk of free will.”  
> “Faust,” Goethe. Mephistopheles, the Devil with whom Faust makes a deal, says “I am not omniscient but I know a lot.”  
> “The Mysterious Stranger,” Twain. “It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe ...” and “You have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought.”  
> e.e.cummings. “Unbeing dead isn’t the same as being alive.”  
> “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” Thompson. “No, this is not a good city for psychedelic drugs. Reality itself is too twisted.”  
> “Memories of My Melancholy Whores,” Marquez. “Sex is the consolation when you can’t have love.”


	11. Chilly Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for the comments and for reading! I am currently listening to American Gods and trying not to let it influence my style too much (which is hard, that book is beautiful, if you're looking for an amazing audiobook than I highly recommend the full cast production).

These days, more often than not, Garrus found himself locked in his room trying not to think about certain things (which, of course, made said things front and center in his mind). In these moments, Garrus would take a deep breath, close his eyes, and recite one of the stories of turian folklore to himself; stories he’d worshiped as a child. The tale of _Cero, or He with Unyielding Focus_ or _Agaeon the Dutiful Child_ or _Euriphes’ Penance for Seven Lifetimes_ brought him a strange sort of comfort, as if somehow by reliving some of his fondest memories as a child he might go back and rework the past.

Most of these stories came from his valiant great-grandmother, Deries Vakarian. She'd led the political campaign for the most recent amendment to the citizenship tier, making it illegal to discriminate against former criminals when considering Hierarchy advancements (something that was commonly but quietly practiced). “It wasn’t about heroics,” she’d wheezed to eleven year old Garrus. “It was a service to our people. A criminal once isn’t a criminal forever. Don’t you think so?”

“I think ...” Garrus thought of his friend, Otho. Not a lot of kids liked Otho: he was behind two grades because he’d gotten in a lot of trouble and had to serve time in a juvenile detention. Otho pressured Garrus into trying beer and smoking; on the other hand, he was always there the second Garrus needed a real friend. “I think it’s a lot harder to be good when you’ve been mostly bad. Maybe that makes their good mean more.”

Then she’d given him a wry grin, showing off the few real teeth that had remained. “I wish the rest of the Hierarchy was as quick as you. Sometimes, kicking your people in the butt to get them moving is a service, too.” Spirits, he’d loved her; he’d keened awfully at her funeral, while his mother and father and even Solana stood stoic and solemn. He hadn’t thought of her in over a decade; hadn’t he buried that pain?

Thus, the memories would backfire and Garrus would reach for his bluish-white powder to take a trip to the ice giant, inhaling a thick line, searing his nostrils while he waited for freezing numbness to kick in. Sometimes Garrus could still move and walk around, the layout of the room shifting whenever he tried to focus, looking bigger and smaller, distant and up close. The worst was always when he slipped into an ice hole, where he felt he could watch himself, floating in space, while twisted versions of his favourite stories played out ...

Instead of Cero finding the true traitor amongst his platoon against all distractions, Cero would always look for _Garrus_. Agaeon the Ungrateful Brat would find Garrus and hide him in the stables, because she hated her doting father and would happily do anything to anger him, including hiding a fugitive. Then he would look around, the smell of scales and farm and shit all around him: suddenly he wasn’t in space, he was vividly back in his body, in a dirty urban bathroom, tucked up beside Weaver or Sensat after another run had gone sour.

But while scrambling to write, using blue blood from an open wound to draw a map on the barely-white tile floor, something terrible and inexplicable would happen. The sink would burst open and blood would stream over the sink, drowning them, or a lightbulb would crack with a terrible scream and shatter, jagged pieces landing on his face and shredding his eyes ...

He’d be wrenched from his chemical high, hyper aware of his surroundings for a moment and absolutely petrified. Then he would sink again, slowly giving into the drugs, to relive the whole thing. Garrus Vakarian’s Penance of a Million Lifetimes, he supposed, the last conscious thought before losing himself.

\

“So what are we going to do about her?” Tali asked him when she came up to visit. She had noted, almost immediately, that there were no Cerberus bugs in his room and had approved. Garrus sighed; Shepard being exactly one of those topics he wished to avoid recently.

He was glad Tali was here, all the same. When they’d arrived on Haestrom, Garrus was coming back from a trip to the ice giant and had the migraine to prove it. The blinding light and stifling heat had put him in a terrible mood, barking and snapping at everyone and, to his mortification, resulting in a small but noticeable loss of accuracy.

Shepard hadn’t been impressed but thankfully Garrus had found a way to make himself useful.

Tali had been very reluctant to join when they reached her. “I don’t know, Shepard. You let them take Veetor -- do you even know what they did to him? _Keelah_ , Shepard, he hasn’t been the same since! Jabbering and rambling, a nervous wreck --”

“Tali,” Garrus had pulled her aside to speak privately. He felt a little guilty but remembered he did owe the squad one after his crap performance on the field. “I think you’re right. I’m worried about Shepard, too. We have to keep an eye on her, together. _I_ need you.” Tali, hesitating slightly, had agreed.

“Well done, Cassius,” Shepard had muttered to him after, out of earshot. Upon looking up the reference back on the SR2, Garrus wondered if maybe Shepard had heard him, after all.

Back in the present, Garrus deflected, “To be honest, Tali, I thought you would know what to do.”

“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted, sitting on his bed and crossing her arms protectively around herself. “I want to keep an eye on her, see if we notice anything we can do for her. I think she just needs to be reminded who her real friends are.”

“I think you’re right,” he added somberly, leaning against the console. He didn’t really want to think about being Shepard’s friend right now, so he turned back to his work, and said, “Let’s talk about this later. We’re putting the Thanix in soon; I’ve got a lot to do.”

Tali snorted, getting up. “Of course you do. I have an engine to inspect, as it is. I’ll hold you to _later_.” Then, just before she hit the door controls, she added, “I just wonder what we’re blind to, because of our history with her, you know?”

Garrus blinked; Tali had echoed Samara’s words almost exactly.

\

Jack was definitely Garrus’ least favourite squadmate, with her churlish angst and self-pitying dramatics. But it wasn’t until Jack needed a favour that Garrus began to wonder if his lie on Haestrom had been a hidden truth.

Shepard had been avoiding him lately, after all. He’d been so busy avoiding her for reasons of his own that he hadn’t noticed. But now, sitting across from her in the comms room while she debriefed them, Garrus realized he hadn’t been here in quite some time. In fact, he remembered overhearing Miranda and Shepard arguing late at night, in the mess hall, because Shepard had started taking all her calls with the Illusive Man alone. Garrus couldn’t explain why but this knowledge gave him a very bad feeling.

But the atrocities of the Pragia facility temporarily knocked all the wonderings (and breath) out of Garrus. “They kept _children_ in these cells?” he asked, disbelieving. His grip tightened on his gun and he felt a cold anger start to creep onto him, not unlike an early winter frost.

“Fuckers. These kids were lucky; you should see where they kept me.” Garrus wanted to point out that children suffering abuse wasn’t a competition but thought the wiser of it when Jack snapped a varen’s neck with her biotics.

As the evidence piled up, Garrus watched Jack morph from a brutally angry young woman to a frightened little girl at lightning speed. He felt his own anger build, too, the tiny beds splattered with blood piercing his heart. No one, he thought with immense sadness, probably told these children stories. 

Shepard, in typical Shepard fashion, showed no reaction to the poltergeists haunting this place. Even when they ran into krogan mercenaries, Shepard rolled with it, bantering and sneering at her enemies as usual. Both Jack and Garrus tapped into her unshakeable calm, her aloof confidence, and Garrus was grateful for it. That is, until they found the young man in Jack’s cell; Aresh, he called himself. There was a flurry of shouting and movement and suddenly the young man was on his knees, Jack’s gun to his head.

“You want to rebuild this place?” Garrus spat, incensed, holding the young man’s arms behind his back. “This is a horror house that should be burned to the ground.” Shepard said nothing, watching the scene impassively before her.

“What they did to us had to be worth something!”  Aresh protested, eyes unfocused and unhinged. “I have to know what our purpose is; don’t you want to know what they learned?” If they hadn’t been in the middle of a firefight, if it hadn’t been almost three years since Garrus had been even a halfway respectable cop (truthfully it’d been much longer), Garrus might have felt pity. Instead, he found himself only evaluating the threat level. “Once I rebuild Teltin, I won’t need to fear the demons in my dreams anymore. You see those demons too, don’t you, Subject Zero?”

“Fuck! I don’t know!” Jack used her other hand to pinch her head.

Sounding only mildly interested, Shepard suggested, “You want to erase your past and he’s part of it. What are you going to do, Jack?”

The deja-vu was intense, like he was on his own mission hunting Saleon again, silently asking the very same question of Shepard. It was so bitter in his mouth Garrus might actually have spat; of course, she’d already told him the truth, hadn’t she? It had nothing to do with a shared love of justice or righteousness that she’d let him kill Saleon. She didn’t care who lived or died. She just wanted to see what he -- and what Jack, now -- would do.

“I don’t know ... shit!” Jack bit her lip and looked on the verge of tears. “Is this right? Will killing him really fix my head?” In the dark of the cell, Garrus looked between Aresh and Jack; the fear-fuelled hysteria was identical on their faces.

“You’re a killer, Jack,” Shepard replied, vicious in her mundane tone. “It’s what you do.”

A trigger pull later and Jack proved Shepard right. Garrus tensed, not knowing what to say or do and feeling a little dizzy; he thought maybe if he liked Jack more, he’d be more upset. As it was, he kept coming back to his own request for a favour on the SR1 and how similarly it had played out.

“We’re done with this, right?” Shepard drawled. “We sort of have a galaxy to save. I need to know this is behind you.”

Back on the shuttle, racing away from the facility, Jack had apparently mustered a response. “I don’t get you, Shepard. You are a cold ass bitch. You don’t give a shit about anyone or anything but yourself. Why the fuck do you care about saving the galaxy?”

Garrus was half-listening, still lost in thought. How could he judge? Shepard hadn’t technically killed Aresh, after all. But now she knew that she could convince Jack to do so. Was that even worse? On the other hand, Jack was a loose cannon, potentially too unstable for the Omega-4 mission at all; maybe it was a good thing -- a harsh, brutal thing -- but a good thing to know Shepard could control her?

Shepard shrugged carelessly. “You’re not wrong about me, Jack. I say, let the galaxy go to hell but I should always have my pint of beer.”

“Quit playing fucking games and talk straight. If I’m gonna do this, put all this shit behind me for some crazy ass suicide mission, I deserve to know why. It’s not fair.” There it was; that petulance that grated on Garrus’ nerves. It was easier to understand Jack’s stunted emotional development now, having seen where she’d come from, but it didn’t make it easier to endure.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Shepard said, folding her arms and leaning back in her bench. “I’m apparently the only fucking person -- dead or alive -- that can save this galaxy, my ass included.” Tersely, she added,  “When the Reapers come, they’ll kill or enslave us all; that includes me. I don’t plan on ending that way.”

Jack snorted, anxiously moving the detonation pad between both hands. Pretty soon, they’d be out of blast range. “Because you’re a bundle of fucking courage and joy.”

“I like my life,” Shepard offered sincerely. “Sometimes I defuse nukes, sometimes I stop pirates,  sometimes I enjoy private vices. It’s not a bad life.”

“So that’s it? You’re just doing it to save yourself?” Jack seemed incredulous but not so angry anymore. “So if you could just disappear to another galaxy, you’d just fucking do it.”

Shepard scoffed. “Wouldn’t you? You know, someone once said, let us suppose that mankind is not stupid. Organics, in this case. Let us assume that organics are not stupid. But if they are not stupid, they are monstrously ungrateful! Phenomenally ungrateful for all the shit I’ve done for them. The best definition of man is the ungrateful biped. Except for elcor and hanar, I guess.” Jack huffed a laugh. Shepard continued, “As it happens, skipping town isn’t an option. So here I am, back to save the day. I thought you would understand that; you know, the pleasure of just living, blowing shit up. Can’t do that if you’re dead and can’t enjoy it if you’re indoctrinated.”

Jack’s face melted a bit, a wobbly smile emerging. “Yeah,” she agreed distantly, looking out the window. After a minute, she turned back to them and declared, “Here’s to blowing shit up!” She slammed her fist on the detonation button and in the distance, Garrus saw the embers and mushroom cloud grow.

Jack howled with delighted, maniacal laughter, and Shepard watched her with a cold smile on her lips. “How’d that feel?” she asked, all polite curiosity.

“Fucking great. Satisfying.”

Garrus, in a very hollow, flat voice,  said, “Good. That’s how it should feel.”

Jack was absorbed with watching the explosion out her window; Shepard took her helmet off and held it in both hands. She looked at Garrus quizzically, having picked up on his unhappy tone. Something about the uncertainty laid plain on her face struck Garrus and his doubt evaporated; for her, he managed a half-hearted ironic grin. She smirked back with genuine warmth.

Had she been turian, she would have picked up on the awkward fluttering of his mandibles.

\

A few days later, Garrus had decided to set the record straight with Samara, although even with their bizarre oath, she still unnerved him a bit. He was in her lounge, sitting on the couch while the Justicar quietly meditated. Samara didn’t crack an eye open when she mused, “You have a question about your Commander.”

“How did you --”

“You waited until she was off the ship to come to me, Garrus. It was simple to deduce.”

Garrus sighed; she wasn’t wrong. Somehow, Shepard had gotten intelligence that Jacob’s father had been discovered; she’d taken Miranda with her to help the abandoned son find closure. They’d been gone only an hour before Garrus finally cracked. “That thing you said to me, when I ...”

“They were only words,” she said, so softly he almost didn’t hear. “If they are not true, you are free to ignore them. You choose to let them fester. Why?”

“Because there’s been a misunderstanding. I served under Shepard for a year fighting the most incredible battle the galaxy has seen in our cycle, then she died and was reborn, she’s shared these experiences with me, of course I care about her but ... ” He stopped himself, realizing he was rambling.

Samara turned her neck to look at him. It was a smile on her face but a sad smile. The kind parents wore when proudly sending their children off on their first warship, knowing full well it might also be their last.

“I think you can see the truth for yourself, if you allow it. My understanding is that you refuse.” She looked back to the window so he couldn’t see her face. “Your feelings for the Commander blind you to her true nature. She needs you by her side but you must be vigilant against your desire for her.”

Hearing it again wasn’t any better: the words punched him in the gut just as much as they had the first time, when she’d whispered it like a prophecy to him before taking the oath. He did not _desire_ Shepard. That was utterly absurd.

\

As if to emphasize this point, the first time Shepard ended up in his bed, it was in the least desirable circumstances possible. He awoke with a jolt, feeling another’s presence on his cot. It was not a very large cot to begin with, so her side was pressed tight against his back.

Flipping over, talons raised in attack, he saw her. _What. The --_ “Shepard?” He rasped. He’d been in a particularly deep ice-hole before passing out. The adrenaline gone, grogginess crept back in. Garrus’ vision contorted and for a moment, he honestly thought she was a revenant of his imagination; a half-awake dream. Dreaming about Shepard in his bed? Ugh, not good. That could not end well.

“ _Well_ , look-here.” Her derisive tone ended any suspicions that this was a dream. Garrus liked to think if he did fantasize about her -- which he definitely did not -- it wouldn’t involve condescension and humiliation. “Look who’s back from his holiday from reality.” Each word was bit off and whipped at him like seeds from an unripe fruit.

She was lying on her back over the sheets, in a cotton grey t-shirt and green cargo pants, hands folded over her stomach, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t move her gaze to him, and in this dark corner of the battery, her eyes and scars glimmered fiery orange. She sneered with barely contained anger, “Did you come back without so much a headache or a mythology? Tell me, are ice giants even colder than Noveria?”

Oh no. Oh _fuck_. Garrus deeply regretted ever telling Shepard that all the bugs in his room were gone. Maybe he could have prevented this cockroach of a conversation, ugly and infesting. Garrus swallowed but could not bring himself to say anything. Having Shepard in his space -- while he was naked in his  _bed_ , dammit -- after coming down from a high was throwing him off. It occurred to him that this was probably her intention; how long had she lain there? Nothing made Shepard more patient than fury.

“What ... did I miss?” he asked tentatively, voice hoarse. Some terrible understanding was starting to dawn on him.

Her voice hardened. “A derelict Reaper; the Illusive Man’s latest intelligence and his most recent attempt to demonstrate that I am, in fact, expendable.” There was something more than the usual sarcasm to her tone -- genuine hurt, almost, but Garrus was in no place to question. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was she yanking him around? Trying to rattle him? Or was she telling the truth ... had he really _slept through a mission_? A very dangerous, Reaper-critical one at that?

“How long was I out?” He shifted to sit up properly in the bed, leaning against the back wall, pulling the sheet with him so it covered him to the waist. At least his shame was so powerful it outweighed any worries about desire and feelings. That seemed like such a petty concern in comparison.

“Long enough. A whole day cycle, Garrus. I couldn’t wake you up; you scared the shit out of me.”

Heart pounding, still processing the words _whole day cycle_ , he might have caught the slightly strangled way she’d admitted her fear. Instead, barely focusing, he managed, “I'm sor -- you deserve answers, I know.”

She shifted too, so she was sitting up in his bed. She brought the soles of her feet together but her legs fell open, creating a diamond. He looked away, unable to meet her narrow gaze.

“Do you always make sure to pass out on your side?” she asked sharply.

 _What?_ “Um, yes, obviou -- yes. Of course," he stammered back.

“Is your dealer legit?” He must have been stunned silent for too long because Shepard prompted angrily, “Pay attention! Could they be cutting your ice with anything?”

“No -- ah, yes, they’re good. Only pure ice.”

“How often do you use? Are you shooting up? Are they clean needles?”

“Every few day cycles, I think. It kind of ... blurs together. No needles.”

She did not respond, exhaling loudly through her nostrils instead. Then she let out, “ _Fuck_.”

 _Here we go_ , Garrus thought, bracing himself.

Shepard covered her face with her hands and let out a muffled roar. She followed this outburst by running her hand through her hairs so hard that the skin on her forehead pulled too, pausing with her fingers still digging into her head. Releasing an enormous sigh, she looked sad and tired, not like someone about to physically tear reality apart in biotic anger. A positive sign, as far as Garrus was concerned.

“Okay. We can deal with this,” she said, more to herself than him. Dropping her hands to her knees, she proclaimed, “You’re in luck, you stupid bastard. Of all the ways to be fucked up, drugs are one I can handle.”

“I don’t need --”

Ignoring him, Shepard continued, “You could have at least fucking told me, instead of letting me find out the hard way. I came to get you for the mission and you were like a cadaver. I got Chakwas to do some bloodwork.” So that was how she found out. A shameful way to be discovered, certainly. “Okay, so here’s what we do. We just put the Thanix cannon in, right? From now on, you fucking _tell me_ before getting stoned. When that happens, we’ll tell everyone you’re up to your elbow spurs in calibrations with the new weapons. Understood?”

Garrus was gaping at her so she added irritably, “What the fuck are you so surprised about? How the hell am I supposed to keep morale up if I say, guys, we’re on a suicide mission _and_ y'all better be pure little angels until then, too. Hey, Zaeed, would you like some coffee with your whiskey for breakfast today? Gee, Mordin, do you really think it’s healthy to spy on every scientist you’ve ever worked with on a daily basis? Fuck. I’d have a goddamn mutiny on my hands.” Turning her head, staring far away, she confessed quietly, “It’s not like I’m any better. I’ve been making some shitty choices too lately.”

This confession absolutely disarmed Garrus. He had never, that he could recall, heard her willingly initiate a conversation about some of her less-than-savoury habits with anything close to remorse.

But in precisely the same instant that Garrus wanted to ask _“Like what?”_ he also remembered that he could barely handle his own shit. He wasn’t exactly the right person to be offering to shoulder her burdens, too. So instead he merely answered a forlorn, “Makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” she snapped. “Just don’t fucking OD on me or I will kill you.”

“I won’t. That last trip, it was just a particularly deep --”

“Ice hole, I know. Seriously, though, Garrus. I need you, okay? I ...” She struggled for her next words. “We have a big squad, now, and another sniper. I don’t have to run you so hard on the mission rosters. I’ll ... adapt. Do what you need to do. But that doesn’t mean ...” She left what it didn’t mean unsaid.

If Garrus had any energy, he would have protested. He should have -- a small voice in his head screamed his hurt and anger. No, no, he was the fucking sharp-shooter to her explosive close-range and they were a team, a pair -- _ugh_ , but he had _no right_ , at all, to object. His shoulders sagged. “Okay,” he barely managed to say, hating himself and the feeling of surrender.

She swung her legs over the bed and leaned over, resting her elbows on her thighs, lost in thought. Without thinking, Garrus raised a talon and rested it on her shoulder. She tensed but didn’t try to throw it off. Quietly, he asked, “On a scale of one to out-the-airlock, how angry are you with me?” He moved his talon to her right bicep, for the first time really paying attention to the tree-like scar that blossomed on it.

She didn’t turn around to look at him when she replied wearily, “What’s the point of being mad? I’ve seen this shit before. It’d be a waste of my time to try and yell you into quitting. Never works.” She sighed and Garrus squeezed her bicep gently, hoping it conveyed what he couldn’t find the words to express. She surprised him by putting her left hand over his talon and turning to look at him. “You got this, Garrus. You’re good.” She squeezed his talon and stood up, leaving with the hiss of mechanical doors, a hundred new thoughts about her lingering with Garrus long after she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “The Tragedy of Julius Caesar,” Shakespeare. “Cassius” being the smooth talking co-conspirator.  
> “Notes from the Underground,” Dostoevsky. “I say let the world go to hell but I should always have my cup of tea,” and the “Let us suppose that man is not stupid [...]” speech.  
> “Brave New World,” Huxley. “Take a holiday from reality whenever you like, and come back without so much a headache or a mythology.”


	12. Chasing Mirages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD SHE'S ALIIIIIIIIVE!!!!
> 
> Hi guys. -sheepish smile-
> 
> 1) I am SO SORRY that it's been so long since I updated. Let me tell you a little about why (and why it won't happen again). If you don't care and are just happy to see an update, that's cool too! Scroll down and just read part 2 of this note.
> 
> So in December, after posting the last chapter, my life kind of got tossed up (in a good way!). I was offered a job with one of the coolest fucking companies to be working for in Canada these days, and I accepted. BUT this job was in a city 700km away ... so I had a crazy few months of trying to wrap up my life and old job as quickly as possible, plus organize a long distance move across cities. 
> 
> THEN I got here, and it's awesome, but I don't know anyone! I have had to start all over; friends, social life, networking, impressing my coworkers with my mad tech skills, etc. That meant lots of putting in extra hours to get up to speed at work, accepting every social invitation coming my way, and just generally trying to rebuild my life. It's been a few months, happy to say I've made friends and have zero regrets. Mostly. Except for the part where I have had no time to sit down and write. So here I am, finally in a routine of sorts, and things are going so well! I'm so sorry I've been so absent, and especially if you were worried about me at all! So yes, IRL did get me busy, but in the best way possible!
> 
> 2) It's been a while since I've written, obviously, so apologies if this chapter is a little rough! It might take me a little to get back into my groove and find my writer's voice again. Feedback is always appreciated! The tl;dr version is that I changed jobs and moved cities and was crazy busy, but my life has normalized again somewhat and I should be good. Updates will still be slower than before, but definitely not almost half-a-year updates (eep! just writing that kills me!).
> 
> THANK YOU for being here. You guys are the best.

Garrus was not a stranger to feeling like a failure. He had even been arrogant enough, once, to convince himself that disappointing people shouldn’t effect him. Disappointing people only mattered if you cared what those people thought and those of fierce character didn’t care about such small matters. People like Shepard; whatever anyone said about her, whatever he thought of her sometimes, no one could say that she lacked strong character.

So it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did when Wrex dropped the worst bomb he’d heard in awhile -- worse, in fact, than Shepard stumbling onto his cold little secret.

“You heard me, Vakarian,” Wrex growled, pushing his monstrously sized self into Garrus’ space. “You’re not clean, you don’t get to fight. The kid --” Wrex jerked his head over his shoulder, where Grunt stood out of earshot with the priest, preparing for his test “--has to prove he’s worthy on his strength alone.”

“It’s _ice,_ ” Garrus hissed, angry that he’d been found out, _again_. Wrex had smelt it on him -- Spirits, could anyone with a keen nose figure it out? Garrus had been away from his people for too long ... when (if) he finally returned to them, would everyone know? What would he say? “It’s not exactly performance enhancing.”

“He’s got a point, Wrex,” Shepard added, arms folded across her chest. She kept her tone careful and even; it worried Garrus, quite frankly.

“It doesn’t --” Wrex was cut off before he could finish by a growl from loud Garrus.

“It does matter!” Closing his eyes, Garrus bitterly forced a voice of calm. “Ice _paralyzes_ me --” Wrex and Shepard exchanged a look; a look of such silent, shared understanding and condescension that Garrus nearly punched them both. “I’ll even take a hit before I go out there; no chemical advantages there. Grunt should get bonus points if he wins with a junkie on his team.”

“No.” It was Shepard this time, her voice hard and final.

“I --”

“Can you pretend to not be a complete idiot for a few minutes?” Shepard spat.

Unsure of how to answer, Garrus started: “Shepard ...”

“What the fuck did I just say?” Shepard snapped and Wrex let out a low laugh. “Be quiet. _Listen_.”

Garrus scowled deeply and released disobedient, flippant subharmonics that would have earned him a flogging in any turian military environment. “I’m going to ignore whatever that was,” Shepard continued coldly,  flipping the visor of her helmet down so Garrus could no longer see her angry, bright orange eyes. “I don’t like this either, Garrus -- I’d feel a lot better up against fuck-knows-what with you there -- but this isn’t all bad. This might work out for us. There’s something I need you to do.”

Garrus stood more stiffly. “Okay,” she nodded approvingly. “Mordin came to me with a favour -- some stupid ass intern or assistant of his is missing, kidnapped maybe, by a rival krogan tribe.”

“Yeah, clan Wyerloc,” Wrex frowned, thinking.  “They’be been up to some weird shit lately. Haven’t heard anything about a salarian though, and believe me, word about salarian scientists on Tuchanka would travel fast. The Chief Scout might know something about it.”

“Well, that’s as good a place as any to start,” Shepard sighed, pulling up her omni tool while continuing without looking up, “I told Mordin we’d have to wait till after Grunt’s puberty party or whatever, but if you’re not going anyways, then I want you to take Mordin out there. I’m messaging him now to join us.”

“I’m pretty sure Mordin can handle himself,” Garrus replied dryly.

Shepard’s head snapped up for a moment.“You know, I don’t remember asking for your fucking opinion.” She went back to her tool, commanding, “You’re taking Mordin and someone else, your pick, to find more about what these wayward Weyrlocs.”

“Didn’t we already save one of Mordin’s assistants?” Garrus sighed, defeated. “The first time?”

Shepard stopped typing and put away her omni tool. “Right? Just imagine how many assistants he goes through when we’re _not_ there to save their asses. He must be a shitty boss.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like,” Garrus replied sardonically.

Wrex laughed, slapping Garrus hard on the back -- hard enough that Garrus had to take a few steps forward to offset the weight.

Shepard huffed, putting her arm back down. “Well, you do this and you won’t have to find out just how shitty I can be, got it?”

“Alright, Shepard,” Garrus agreed. “I’ll take Mordin on this run, keep the meglomaniac alive.” Swallowing, trying to keep his tone light, he added, “Try not to die out there.”

\

One dead assistant and one saved data disc later, Garrus had dumped Mordin back at the Normandy’s tech lab and was circling Grunt’s party, lingering on the edges of the large campsite. The krogans, enormous normally, looked even more menacing in the shadows of the large bonfires, their beady eyes dull and aggressive with too much ryncol. Even with Wrex’s blessing, Garrus doubted a drunk turian alone was safe here and inasmuch, avoided even a drop of alcohol.

When he finally found her, she didn’t seem to feel the same way.

If Garrus was being completely honest with himself, he’d have recognized that he’d seen her many times that night. While he stalked the perimeter, he kept an eye on her when he could, watching her clank tankards and bumping heads with the krogan. Of course, of all the species in the galaxy, the krogan would be the ones with whom she got along most easily.

The crowd shifted: the combination of a drunk krogan stumbling into him and losing sight of Shepard made Garrus move quickly again, trying to avoid attention. When he caught sight of her, Wrex was beside her, one arm slung over her shoulders. That should have been a relief, Wrex would look out for her, but Garrus instead felt a hot welt of jealousy on his back, making him straighten his shoulders.

She hadn’t _actually_ slept with Wrex, had she? Garrus had to suppress the angry subharmonics building. Wrex and Shepard had always been close, inseparable, he’d been her favourite on missions ... They shared the same callous, aloof perspective on the world. A mutual understanding that casual flippancy and immediate distrust were the wisest response to anyone and anything.

Wrex must have said something very funny, because Shepard laughed, throwing her head back and tripping slightly, resting a hand on Wrex’s chest to steady herself. She was clearly shitface drunk, but Garrus resisted the urge to walk (storm) over. Firmly he reminded himself of how immensely pathetic it would be to throw a jealous fit at two old war buddies reuniting.

A ping on his omnitool distracted him. It was from Tali: _We need to talk._ An ominous beginning to a conversation.

_About what_? Garrus typed back.

_While you’ve been partying on Tuchanka, I’ve been doing some research ..._ Tali started replying.

_You’re getting as bad as Liara,_ Garrus replied back, knowing she’d catch the sarcasm.

_This isn’t funny, Garrus,_ and Garrus could just hear her huffing dramatically through her environmental suit.

_Right. So what’s the problem?_ Garrus watched his tool, waiting for a response, when a sound caught his ear. A human voice; her voice.

“Right, you are the baddest of them all, I’m sure.” Her drawl was recognizable anywhere, even if it were a crowded room of human females, he’d know it.

Garrus started moving, skirting around a few wrestling krogan, blocking out the loud noise of traditional drums and drinking chants, sidestepping a dance group --

“You almost shot my brother,” another krogan, not Wrex, growled.

“Really? You’re here to pick a fight about a shot I didn’t even take? He’s alive, isn’t he? And,” Shepard must have paused to take a gulp of beer, “I happen to even like the bastard. So calm down.”

“I ain’t mad because you tried to kill him,” the krogan replied. “I’m fucking pissed that you didn’t go through with it.”

Shepard barked a laugh. “What strange creatures, brothers are!”

“Think we’re animals, huh?” the krogan sneered with something strange in his voice, and Garrus felt the knaw of worry. But his omni tool pinged him again, reminding him of an unread message.

Shepard would be fine. She could handle herself.

_Cerberus, Garrus,_ Tali had written. _They were sending sabotaged parts back to the Fleet -- I can’t trust them, no matter what Shepard says. You know that, right? I had to do something._

Tali was getting on the defensive already. Garrus sighed in irritation and replied back, _It’s fine, Tali, I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. What’d you find?_

He was hoping her messages would be more relaxed now but instead the next words were stutters; even more anxious than before.

_Well ..._

_I know, and I know you know, but ..._

_I managed to decrypt some of the communication logs and, well, I found some interesting exchanges ... between the Illusive Man._

Garrus frowned and typed back in confirmation, _The Illusive Man and who? Miranda? Jacob?_

He’d lost track of Shepard’s voice. Where had she gone?

Garrus felt a bad feeling grow in his stomach and he started picking his way through the crowd, focusing on not brushing past anyone as he moved. Where had they gone? What had the other krogan done? What had _Shepard_ done? That could only be infinitely worse.

He saw them and his stomach stopped feeling bad; it dropped through him and landed on the floor. Garrus felt a little winded, seeing the krogan pressed against Shepard on a dark rock wall. They were further from the crowded area, on the fringes, and Shepard was so tiny compared to the krogan that he blocked the view of her almost entirely as he pressed his giant head into the crook of her neck, his heavy tongue running against her skin. If Garrus hadn’t been looking for her, he wouldn’t have seen her.

A ping on his tool. Good, a distraction. _No_ , Tali replied. _With Shepard._

Garrus started and reread the sentence. He turned away from Shepard and her meal for the night, almost afraid that the Commander would somehow see the message. _What?! Tali ..._

_I was worried!_ Tali replied before Garrus could type out his next sentence. _They just seem so close, Garrus. Too close. I’m worried about her._

This wasn’t a surprise; it shouldn’t have been. Given how much money and effort the Illusive Man had put into remaking Shepard, it shouldn’t be surprising that he communicated with her frequently. But there was something in the tone of Tali’s messages that worried Garrus. She wasn’t an idiot, by any stretch, and innocent mission based communication wouldn’t have merited a comment.

_How close_? Garrus replied, feeling odd.

“ _Ow_ !” Shepard yelped and Garrus perked up immediately, turning back around. His eyes swept the canyon, the darkness, the flickering lights -- where had she gone? “I said,” Shepard growled, “Fuck _off_!”

There was a loud thump and she screamed. Shepard _screamed_. Shepard didn’t scream.

Garrus raced around the corner of the canyon wall, moving over sandy ground where he could feel the vibrations of someone get struck repeatedly.

Spirits.

Garrus saw the krogan on top of Shepard, his whole weight pinning her down, pummeling one fist after the other into her face. Shepard was struggling under his weight to free herself, squirming and cursing. The krogan’s size pinned down her arms and her legs; she looked so small. “What is your fucking pro --” Shepard couldn’t finish when another fist hit her mouth and she groaned, spitting blood.

"Wrex has no idea what he's doing, buddying up with fucking humans!" the krogan yelled, raising a fist to strike her again. "And you're just his favourite little alien, aren't you?"

“ _Hey_!” Garrus yelled wildly, foolishly, because he just wanted the krogan off of Shepard and focused on him. The krogan looked up, glaring, and then snarling when he saw it was a turian. “Perfect,” the krogan snapped. “Another one of Wrex’s friends for me to kill.”

“You don’t want to do that,” Garrus replied, trying to remain calm. “Get off, right now.”

“Yeah, we were going to try that, but human females are too small,” the krogan sneered back. “I can get one good pump in before tearing them apart.”

“Doubt it,” Shepard grumbled, spitting out more blood. “I’ve fucked salarians with bigger dicks than you.” She was answered with a backhand to the face and Garrus tensed. Couldn’t she ever keep her mouth shut, even for her own safety? He had moved closer and could see her face now; mangled with blood, her skin darkening to the colour of rotten fruit.

“Yeah?” the krogan said, leaning in close to Shepard’s face. Garrus took his chance to quietly move closer -- if he could just close the gap between them ... “So you still want to try?” The krogan then reared his head, preparing to smash it into hers but Garrus got there first.

Throwing all of his weight into the jump, Garrus launched himself at the krogan and managed to topple him off of Shepard, just barely. Shepard groaned and rolled onto her side, coughing at the sudden access to more air. Garrus moved lithely to his feet, hearing Shepard behind him but eyes never leaving the krogan. He held an arm out to block the view of her from the krogan and ordered, "Shepard, move! Get out of here!" He heard her fumble to all fours and hoped she listened to his instructions.

“So you wanna go first, you little boney fucker?” the krogan growled, staggering to his feet as well. Garrus felt a surge of pride at having very thoroughly knocked a krogan down.

“Oh yes,” Garrus hummed. “I was hoping you’d drop your pants so I could bust all four of your balls.”

The krogan leaped and Garrus sidestepped him, watching the him coldly. He didn’t want to kill a krogan on Tuchanka, in the midst of Grunt’s celebration, under Wrex’s rule. The krogan roared in frustration, his hackles raised.

“You -- fucking -- aliens --” the krogan lunged and missed again. “This is what Wrex doesn’t see! You think you’re fucking better than us!” Another missed lunge, Garrus rolled to the side this time, landing hard on his left shoulder and wincing. “Think you can come around here, with your freak-show tank-bred, throw a party ... you have no fucking right!” He was downright howling now and Garrus had a safe distance between them. Someone else had to have heard them by now.

“You alien _sluts_ think you can come here and fuck a krogan for a laugh?!”

Shepard had dragged herself to lean against the rock wall, breathing heavily. The krogan looked up sharply, just as Garrus did -- oh shit, the krogan was between him and Shepard, Garrus hadn’t been watching where he’d been moving --

The krogan pivoted and lunged at Shepard the same time as Garrus sprinted and jumped, hoping to tackle him --

A large crash and bang to his head; Garrus rolled over from where he’d hit the ground. They’d collided into something much heavier; had they over aimed and hit the wall? Shit, had they hit Shepard?

“ _Wreav!_ ” The voice was magic to Garrus in this moment.

“You little shit!” Wrex continued angrily. “You think you can wander off during the ceremonies for a new Urdnot initiate? _And_ try and beat the shit out of my friends while you’re at it? You got some fucking nerve.”

Garrus rubbed his aching head and blinked back lights. Wrex had clearly intervened, blocking them both from landing on Shepard. Garrus looked around, vision blurry and feeling mildly concussed, and saw her still leaning against the rock, clutching her face. Garrus crawled closer to her as Wrex struck Wreav so hard the other krogan fell unconscious. For the hundredth time, Garrus was glad Wrex was on their side.

Wrex glanced in Shepard’s direction and said, "She good? What did Wreav do?”

“Yeah,” Garrus agreed weakly, blinking away stars. “Yeah, she'll be good. I got this Wrex. Thanks.” Wrex nodded and grabbing one of Wreav’s legs, pulled them back to the bonfires.

“Hey,” Garrus whispered to Shepard. She didn’t look up, trembling. “Hey, Shepard.”

“ _What_ , Vakarian,” she seethed through gritted teeth, words rolling together over a swollen mouth. “What the fuck do you want? Just fucking say it.” She spat up blood.

“Say what?” Garrus asked, confused. Still on all fours, he came in close enough to swing his legs around and crouch beside her. He reached forward and rested a hand on her arm, moving as carefully and gingerly as he would have defusing a bomb. It didn’t explode and he sagged with relief.

“I’m a reckless fucking idiot, a ...”

“Drunken sodomist?” Garrus suggested helpfully.

She lowered her hands and slurred, “Shut the fuck up.” She leaned back against the wall, her eyes glazed and still very inebriated now that the adrenaline of being beat up was over.

“Apologies, Commander. You’re obviously a sober sodomist too.”

This time she laughed weakly, rolling her head over her neck. “Ugh, bad idea,” she groaned, clutching her head again. Both her eyes were swollen and red; four deep cuts from Wreav’s claw bled freely on her left cheek and her lower lip was twice it’s normal size. Using the less dangerous side of his claw, Garrus wiped some of the blood from her lip that was now dribbling down her chin.

She hissed in pain and Garrus sighed. He mused, “Humans are so _fragile_. How exactly did you become the apex species on your planet again?”

“Once we were blobs in the sea,” Shepard answered matter of the factly, smiling slightly. “And then fishes, and then lizards and rats and then monkeys, and then like ... a million things in between.” She held up a hand and patted Garrus face, staring into his eyes intently. “This hand was once a fin, this hand once had ...” She tried to dig her nails into his scales and breathed, “... _claws_.”

“Uh-huh,” Garrus managed to keep a straight face, fighting back a laugh. “Very impressive, Shepard. So, want to use those apex instincts to get us back to the Normandy?” He looked over his shoulder to the party. “I think we’re done here. I don't know about you but I don't need any more Urdnot family drama in my life."

Shepard nodded with uncharacteristic complacency. Garrus stood up and hunkered back down, putting one talon under each of her arm pits to lift her up. “Can you walk?”

In lieu of reply, Shepard turned, stumbled and vomited on the ground beside them. Garrus scooped her up into his arms and she groaned at the movement, leaning her head against his chest. “You are,” she mumbled, head curled into his chest. “The _best_.”

“I’m going to have to get you to say that again, preferably somewhere with witnesses.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Carrying Shepard all the way back to the Normandy, Garrus hadn’t felt so light in a long time.

\

After dropping Shepard in her room and tucking (tossing) her into bed, Garrus retreated back to his battery, feeling warm and pleased with himself. He’d succeeded in helping Mordin, Grunt had gotten his puberty worked out of his system, and Shepard thought he was the best. All in all, a good day. When he entered his room though, there was someone already on his bed.

“Tali!” Garrus said in surprise. “What are you ...” The messages, of course. Garrus had forgotten about them. “I’m sorry, I got distracted.”

Tali was very silent, sitting with her hands curled in her lap and a datapad next to her. “Garrus, I thought ... I thought you were angry with me.”

“Angry?”

“For hacking Shepard’s accounts. You were ignoring me.”

Garrus sighed wearily, reminded forcibly of how young Tali still was in so many ways. He plopped down next to her on the bed, dropping his bag on the ground. “Not mad. Shepard ran into some trouble that I had to bail her out of: you know, the usual.” He offered a cocky smirk to cheer Tali up but it fell flat. If anything, Tali looked away and avoided his gaze even more.

“Did you read the rest?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah, you said they were close.” Garrus shrugged, feeling slightly uneasy, not wanting to prick the bubble ballooning in his chest. “To be expected.”

“It’s more than that, Garrus. Almost ... intimate. Like, if they were quarians, I’d say they’d probably connected suit environments by now, if you get my meaning.”

Garrus felt sick and unsure he wanted to hear more. “That’s ... well, that’s a little gross but ... Look, Shepard can handle herself. She’s not going to fall for anyone’s emotional manipulation --”

“ -- That’s not what I why I wanted to talk to you about her.” Her voice was very quiet now, not nervous at all anymore. Like the voice someone used at a funeral. She scooted further away from Garrus, not looking at him and Garrus almost wanted to ask her to stop talking.

“She’s been getting intel from him,” Tali continued. “Using it for chasing down missions, and I came across something you might ... oh, keelah Garrus, you deserve to know, I’m sorry ...” Garrus merely stared at her, frozen, unthinking. It wasn’t about, it couldn’t be, she would have told him, she _knew_...

“I think she found that man you were looking for, the one who ... the one that ... “

She handed him the datapad. Garrus saw one name on in the message and felt so very, very numb from his body.

_The best_. Bullshit.

\

They had pulled into a fuel station just outside a mass effect relay, littered with anonymous inns, tech shops and garages. Garrus had excused himself from the ship. He couldn’t think quite straight. Couldn’t think at all. He sat in the bar of a sad inn alone, sipping his fourth dextro-bourbon. Somewhere in the last three, he’d messaged her to come meet him.

A firm hand on his shoulder told him she’d arrived.

“Hey buddy,” she croaked, having just woken from last night's beating and drinking soiree. Spinning him around on his stool, she studied him. “Shit, this what you woke me up for?” Nonchalant as ever, she plopped into the bar stool next to him and flagged down the server for a levo-whiskey. It came quickly, sliding down the bar, and she grabbed it. Her face was still blackened from last night, a dark scab on her lower lip and bandages on her cheek. “Well, here’s to alcohol, the rose coloured glasses of life!” And downed it in one go before flagging for another, hissing at the sting on her lip. Garrus used this time to think. He felt very logical, very calm, very rational.

“Put the drink down. I want you to follow me.”

Shepard raised an eyebrow at this command but shrugged. She hopped back out of the stool, turning only to shoot her second drink and drop a credit chit on the table. “Okay,” she replied coolly, all business. “Lead the way.”

Garrus stood up and without saying a word, moved to the back of the bar and towards the staircase. There were rooms for rent upstairs and Garrus had taken the liberty of booking himself one.

“Private room, Vakarian?” she laughed behind him. “Not exactly romantic but it’s the thought that counts.” That grating tone of her condescension nearly broke Garrus; he thought about whipping around and pushing her down the stairs. He resisted and brought them to a room, swiping a key card and holding the door open for her to follow. Shepard tucked her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and eyed him for a moment. After studying him carefully, she seemed satisfied, and moved inside.

Shepard scoffed, dropped onto the bed and pulling out her cigarettes and a lighter. “Ominous shit. Okay, Garrus. What’s this about?” She lit her cigarette and leaned back on one hand. “Did you impregnate an asari hooker? Did you kill a hanar mob boss and his drell assistant is coming for you?”

“There is a condition to this conversation, Shepard.” Garrus stepped in and closed the door behind him, locking it.

She nodded, eyes narrowing, a cloud of smoke framing her head.

“I am,” he started, still calm, controlled. “Not even remotely happy with you right now. If you don’t answer my questions, or if you try to leave, if you try to use your biotics on me, then I’m out. I’m off the suicide mission. Are we clear?”

Shepard blinked. She blinked again, thinking. “Okay. Yeah, okay, Garrus. I hear you.”

He sat on the twin bed opposite of her, staring at her intensely. “There is _one thing_ that I need to do before I give myself to your suicide mission.”

She said nothing, waiting. Good; he had her attention. Garrus watched her, tense and poker faced. “Do you know what that is?”

“Finally winning your father’s praise?” she intoned dryly, flicking ashes off her cigarette, but her face remained tense.

“Don’t fucking do that, Shepard.” Garrus’s fists tightened. “I _told you_ not to fucking do that. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah --”

“Don’t answer!” he spat. “I don’t want to hear you talk, spinning webs of words. Nod if you agree.” A small tilt of her head revealed her surprise but she nodded her agreement all the same.

“Do you know what the one thing is that I _need_ to accomplish before Omega-4?”

She nodded.

“So you know that I _have_ to find Sidonis. That ...” Garrus couldn’t bring himself to say _man_. “That piece of shit owes me twelve lives, and I’m entitled to collect. You agree?”

She nodded, the rest of her frozen. The cigarette perched forgotten in her fingers, the paper smouldering away around the chemicals.

“So if this is the single most important thing to me before dying on your mission, then don’t you think _withholding information about Sidonis_ isn’t just unfair, but traitorous?”

She opened her mouth but Garrus bared his teeth in warning. She closed her mouth and shook her head defiantly _no_. Bitch.

Leaning over, Garrus pulled the cigarette from her hand and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the bedside table while saying, “Here’s another one for you, Shepard. When did the Illusive Man pry information about my life from you? Was it over wine, or later, during pillow talk, while strategizing about my loyalty?”

Her lips tightened into a barely concealed snarl and she cocked her head, looking up at him. “Am I allowed to speak?” she asked, voice slick with sarcasm.

“You’ve started, haven’t you? When have you ever done anything I’ve asked?” Garrus snapped back, rigid and ready to pounce.

“That’s not fair, Garrus.”

“ _Fair_ ?” Garrus exclaimed. “You want to talk about _fair_ ? Sidonis is on the Citadel, he’s in hiding thanks to someone named _Fade_ , and you decided not to tell me?! How is that fair, Shepard?!”

“How did you --”

“This isn’t about how I found out!” His voice had gotten louder without him intending. He could feel the heat of anger and alcohol pressing against his scale, blurring his vision and making him foolishly brave. “Because I should have found out, _days ago_ , from you! He could be gone by now!”

“Or he was never there at all!” Shepard protested. “I wasn’t hiding anything, fuck me, I don’t even know how -- okay, you’re right, maybe I should have told you, I just wanted to verify the intelligence first, I ...”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!”

“As Commander of --”

“Do _not_ pull rank on me, Shepard. It’s a fucking insult.”

“Stop being so dramatic --”

Garrus seized the ashtray and threw it across the room; it shattered with a loud bang. Shepard tensed but didn’t flinch. He saw her fists ball tight and clutch the sheets.

“Dramatic?” Garrus hissed. He had promised himself that this would not escalate into a physical fight, not like last time, but he was rapidly losing grip on that promise. “You are nothing but drama, Shepard!” He jumped to his feet and began pacing, funneling his anger into movement. He walked into a side table and kicked it over in frustration. “You just play games with people, just fuck around to hurt them!” Before it had even hit the ground, he kicked the table again, harder, so it flew into the wall and splintered. “This is what it’s like try to be your fucking friend, Shepard! I’m done!” Swinging wildly for something to hit, he grabbed a lamp from the bedside table and chucked it past Shepard, shattering it against the wall. The sound satisfied and electrified him.

“Fuck off!” Shepard exclaimed, dodging the glass.

“I’m done, Shepard! ” He seized a kitchenette appliance, relishing the weight of it in his hand. “I’m leaving!" he shook the appliance in her direction. "I'm fucking done!"

“Oh well that’s -- wait, what are you say --” Shepard started but was cut off when Garrus threw the appliance and it crashed into the wall behind her, metal clattering to the ground.

Garrus had her attention again. He stopped and breathed deeply. “You’re taking me to the Citadel, I’m going to find this Fade, I’m going to kill Sidonis, and then I’m gone. I can’t fucking do this anymore.”

“You’re joking.” She had recoiled away from him, as if afraid that now he would strike her. “You’ve got to be kidding. Everything we’ve been through, and you’re walking away because of this?”

“Don’t tell me when my feelings are valid, Shepard. You barely have any to judge.”

“Garrus, shit, oh fuck,” her voice cracked. Shepard bowed her head and looked away, “Garrus, I am really, really fucking sorry. I fucked up.” It was so unusual, in fact, it might have been the first time she’d ever apologized to him, that Garrus paused to think. “It’s just ... Look at you, Garrus!” she implored, cautiously standing up when she saw he wasn’t moving. “When the subject of your old squad comes up, you seriously _lose your shit_. I was only trying to -- I was going to tell you, if it panned out, I just didn’t want to risk one of these fucking meltdowns until then!” Shepard was closer to him now and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Garrus clenched his fists, pulling from her touch. "I'm listening," he seethed.

Sighing, Shepard brought her hand to her side and added, “I was never hiding that information from you, okay? I just didn’t want it to be wrong -- I thought the only thing worse than not being able to get Sidonis would be a false alarm. I was just trying to protect you.”

“Like I said: it wasn’t your call to make,” Garrus said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, it was,” she snapped. “And I made the wrong one. I made a mistake.” She swallowed, as if to physically remove the poison on her tongue, and tried a gentler tone: “What do I have to do, Garrus? You name it, and it’ll happen. Just ... don’t leave, okay? I need you on this mission; I really fucking do. I’d take you over half the crew on the old girl.” She started typing into her omnitool and said, “Look, I’m telling Miranda right now to get the ship ready to go, setting course for Citadel. We’ll handle this, Garrus, I promise.” The anger had passed and he felt anxious, like the atmosphere was pressing in on him.

“I don’t know, Shepard.” Garrus, resigned, collapsed onto one of the twin beds, lying face up. He refused to look at her bruised face. “Every time I think I know you ... " Garrus struggled to find rational words. "Every time I think we've made progress, every time I think I can trust you, you change faces on me." After a pause, and more firmly then he felt, he said, "I can’t do this anymore. I don't get it, Shepard. Why ...” Feeling stupid, the words died in his throat.

He felt Shepard’s weight on the bed as she sat down. “Why what?” she asked quietly.

“Why are you so fucking _cold_? Why are you like this? How does someone like you even exist?" Flustered, anxious and still hurt, he added bitterly, "What _happened_ to you?”

A low, humourless chuckle escaped her, and he heard her ruffle in her jacket, no doubt looking for her cigarettes. “What makes you think anything happened? Maybe I was just born with a pen behind my ear and an inkwell for a heart.” He heard her lighter flick shut. “I don’t know. Maybe everything has always been subtraction and multiplication for me.”

“That’s not reassuring,” Garrus said wearily in reply. “You’re about the only friend I’ve got left in this whole screwed up galaxy. I’d like to know if I can trust you. I _want_ to trust you, Shepard.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, buddy,” Shepard sighed, taking a drag on her cigarette. “It’s just who I am.” Silence, filled with Shepard's inhales on her cigarette.

“Because of the Reds?" Garrus asked, wanting to understand, to believe her. "Growing up on Earth all alone like that?”

“Oh fuck, don’t analyze me,” Shepard groaned. “Probably. Just like having an anal police officer dad turned you into the psychopath you are now.”

Ignoring the bait, Garrus asked quietly, “What was it like?”

“What?” Shepard inquired.

Garrus shrugged absently, not even sure himself where the question came from. Shepard tensed and Garrus thought it was very strange, how uneasy she became talking about her past. “Fine. Rough, I guess,” she said carefully. “Never trust anyone, always trying to find another way up the ladder, you know, the usual.” There was something odd but Garrus couldn’t put his talon on it. She wasn’t lying; she was holding something back.

“How old were you the first time you killed someone?” he followed up bluntly.

“Shit, Garrus.” Shepard stubbed her cigarette and he felt her weight shift as she leaned onto her knees, rubbing her temple with one hand.

“I want to know.”

“Eleven," she answered flatly.

Garrus cursed under his breath and felt very sad, suddenly. He pictured a small, bruised, Shepard-looking child, angry and violent at the world. Maybe a more intelligent version of Jack. He asked, closing his eyes, “The Reds made you do it?”

“It ...” Shepard struggled for words and her omnitool beeped. It would have been the perfect excuse to change topics, but to his surprise Shepard ignored it and continued, “It was before the Reds, Garrus. No one made me do it.”

He turned his head, slowly, to look at her from where he laid. “You _wanted_ to kill someone at eleven?”

Sensing judgement, Shepard stiffened, a proud line etching her jaw. “I _did_ kill someone at eleven.”

“Spirits, Shepard.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“The wolf heard the rabbit scream,” she shrugged, then stood up and stretched her arms above her head while yawning. “And it came runnin’, Garrus, but not to help. It’s just how things go. It's just the hand I was dealt, all right?” She made a show of checking her omni tool and Garrus decided, at least for the time, that he'd pushed enough. He'd certainly heard enough. “Come on, Miranda says we’re ready to go. We gotta pay for this shit, too.”

Garrus stood up, rolling his shoulders, feeling numb as he surveyed the wreckage of the room.

“So we’re good?” Shepard asked, trying to sound casual as she reached the door panel. She turned to face him. “You’re not going anywhere?”

“I don’t know, Shepard,” Garrus replied, his voice hard and commanding. “I’ll decide when we’re through with Sidonis. I have a lot I need to think about.”  

Shepard pursed her lips and nodded. She turned away and opened the door, and they walked the rest of the way to the ship in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “Mansfield Park,” Austen. “What strange creatures, brothers are!”  
> “Hat Full of Sky,” Pratchett. “Once we were blobs in the sea ...”  
> “The Beautiful and Damned,” Fitzgerald. “Here’s to alcohol, the rose coloured glasses of life!”  
> “The Count of Monte Cristo,” Dumas. “Danglars was one of those men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart. Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction.”  
> “The Silence of the Lambs,” Harris. “When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help.”


	13. Spook Your Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my fellow Canadians: enjoy your Victory day long weekend! Happy birthday, Your Majesty! 
> 
> Two shameless plugs:
> 
> 1) I posted the first chapter for the prequel to this fic, called [ bind and unbind ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6781756/chapters/15496408). It's just a four chapter origin story for our favourite crazy bad ass renegade Shepard. I've had it for a while and tend to reread it when I need to ground myself in Shepard's voice, so I encourage you to read it if you want to know more about her origins. 
> 
> 2) If any of you are super Star Wars nerds and watched The Clone Wars + Rebels, I posted a one shot about Ahsoka's confrontation with Anakin Skywalker from the end of Rebels Season Two. Because we all died watching that, I know.

For Shepard, few things were as satisfying as having someone at her back that just _knew_ what she wanted. Without a single exchange of words, without even making eye contact, Garrus had raised his pistol in sync with hers and shot the sad excuses for Fade’s guard. Shepard wouldn’t call a lot of things beautiful, but that perfect flow of understanding power came pretty damn close.

Now, sweating, breathing hard, Shepard leaned against the metal shed that Fade had locked himself into. The warehouse lot looked closer to a junkyard now; pieces of mechs littered everywhere, including a couple of very thoroughly exploded Atlas suits. A few fires still burned, dying without anything organic matter to consume and burning black smoke into the air.

Garrus lined up in position against the other entrance and nodded at her, waiting. Good, Shepard thought, relieved. He was still following her lead to some degree; not like back there, when he’d given away their position by shouting taunts at Fade: “Run all you want, Harkin! We’ll find you!” _Idiot_.

A curt nod and Shepard swung around, kicking open the door. Harkin started and backed up immediately. “You were close, princess, but -- _argh_!” He hit the ground hard from Garrus’ pistol whip as he barrelled open the back door. In the dark cabin, only Garrus’ visor glowed as he stalked lethally around Harkin, circling him. Shepard was reminded fiercely of an alligator circling its prey, ready to crack it’s jaw open and swallow it whole.

“You and I have a mutual friend,” Garrus opened coldly, pausing in his pacing. He towered over Harkin. “I want to know where you sent him.” A chill settled in the air and even Shepard felt a tingle on her skin.

"So,” Harkin growled, pushing himself to his knees. “We both have something the other one wants, huh?”

Shepard rolled her eyes but before she could even smart ass him back, Garrus had backhanded the man. Harkin cried out and hit the wall behind him hard, the reverberations shaking the metal hut. “Ouch,” Shepard mused, moving to sit down in Harkin’s office chair. Leaning back and folding her arms, she breezily continued, “That had to hurt. Why don’t you just shut up and listen to what the man wants?”

“I’m listening,” Harkin growled, spitting blood through broken lips.

Garrus moved in close, grabbing Harkin by the scruff of his neck. Shepard had never seen Garrus quite so focused and intense like this; at least, not as the third party. She wondered if the dangerous, careful way he moved and the forced calm of his voice, like a cheap damn against a hurricane, was what he looked like when he went off on _her_ . They must make quite the sight, she mused casually.

“Sidonis,” the name came out more a hiss than an actual word. “You made him disappear. You tell me where he is, and I won’t have to make you disappear, _Fade_.”

“Shit, Garrus,” Harkin replied, sounding uneasy and torn. He looked away, his old, weathered face twisted. “I can’t do that, it’s bad for fucking business. Clients can’t think I’m going to crack --”

Moving so quickly Shepard couldn’t have stopped him if she’d wanted to, Garrus shoved Harkin against the wall and kneed him, very hard, in the balls.

Garrus put his large foot over the man’s thick neck and Harkin squirmed. Pressing down, cutting off the man’s air, Garrus threatened, “I’ll crack your fucking neck! How’ll that be good for your _business_ , Harkin?” He pressed down harder and Shepard heard the man choke, gasping.

Grimacing, Shepard called out, “Vakarian, I think he’s ready to talk.” She waited, hating that she didn’t know if he would actually listen to her or not. She held her breath.

He did, releasing some of the weight on Harkin’s neck. Still on the ground, Harkin gasped, “Okay! Fuck, fine.” Dragging himself to his feet, he almost pushed back up to standing when Shepard sent a biotic blast his way, knocking him back down.

“Don’t fucking toy with us, Harkin,” she warned, a hard glare fixed on Harkin. “You lie to us, or you tip him off, and we’ll come back here to finish the job. Understood?”

Harkin held her gaze for a moment, angry, bruised and pride wounded. But he nodded all the same, not breaking eye contact. Nodding curtly back, she allowed him access to his computer. He put on a headset and keyed in a code.

“Your identity's been compromised,” Harkin said to someone over an encrypted channel. “Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m calling. I’m sending an agent to deal with it. Meet outside the Orbital Lounge, two hours.”

Taking off the headset, Harkin turned back to the two.  “We did our business. Can I go now?”

Beating her to it, Garrus whipped out his gun and shot Harkin in the leg. Screaming in agony, Harkin fell to the ground again, blood pooling around his leg. “What the fuck is wrong with you?" he howled in agony. "What did I do?”

“You’re a criminal now, Harkin,” Garrus said calmly. “Leaving a blood trail for CSEC is the least I can do.”

Shepard was _livid_ , and if she wasn’t already in the wrong and on thin ice with Garrus, she’d have called him out on the spot. Instead, she jumped out of her chair and uncocked her gun.

She shot Harkin, point blank, in the head. His skull shattered upon impact at that range and scattered over the room, coating Garrus and Shepard in his blood and brain matter.

Garrus gaped at her. “Shepard!” he exclaimed, kicking an ivory piece of bone off his boot. “What did you --”

“You were just going to leave him?” Shepard seethed back. “ ‘A bloodtrail’?! And who would that bloodtrail have led to, huh?”

Garrus tensed and rolled his shoulders back, ready for a fight. Shepard breathed deeply. She could not appear to be cracking, not today, not now. “Okay,” Shepard tried again, more reassuring. “I just don’t want to leave any loose ends. Let’s fucking go.”

Garrus said nothing, swiftly leaving the room. He punched the wall beside the door on his way out, so hard that the glass windows shattered. Shepard watched the shards clatter, gun still in her hand but by her side. For the first time in a long time, Shepard wasn’t sure what to do.

 _Fuck, Garrus_ , she thought mournfully. This better be fucking worth it.

\

Shepard didn’t think things could get much worse, or Garrus could become more unhinged, but she had been almost comically wrong.

“You’re going to snipe him right fucking here?” Shepard chided in disbelief, still sitting in the passenger seat of the car. “That’s your genius fucking plan?”

“I learned from the best,” Garrus snapped back.

“You haven’t learned a damn thing, and it certainly wasn’t from the best!” Shepard rejoined. “This is insane. We’re going to get caught, Garrus. The entire force of the Citadel is going to be on us in _seconds_.”

“We can shake them.”

“It’s not about that!” Shepard exclaimed, exasperated. She turned in her seat to face him. “It’s inelegant and irrational! This isn’t like you, Garrus. We can deal with him cleanly.”

“Like brains-and-blood-splattered-over-my-armour clean?”

“That was different,” Shepard answered through gritted teeth. Despite his anger, a part of Garrus had to be listening to her. He _had_ to be. He was her Garrus. “It was an isolated location with a guy that made a living out of lying low and not existing on people’s radars. No one is going to care. Killing some random turian in the middle of a popular shopping district? We’re going to have trouble on our hands, Garrus.”

Garrus slammed his fist onto the steering wheel, looking away from her. “Then get us out of it! That’s what you do, Shepard!”

“Oh, that’s what I fucking am to you?” Shepard fired back without thinking, surprising even herself with how hurt the words came out. On a roll now, she added viciously, “I’m your get out of jail free card, huh? That’s why you asked for my help?”

“No! I asked ...” Garrus stopped himself, thinking, fists clenching and unclenching. “I asked for your help --”

“Fuck it,” Shepard cut him off, annoyed. Deep sarcasm sewn into her words, she mocked, “Fine, we do this your way, _Archangel_. Show me some Omega style justice.” She pounded her fist on the door open controls and jumped out.

“Shepard, wait,” Garrus called out after her. He sounded, for a moment, genuinely upset and almost like himself again. “I never meant ... That’s not --”

“What do you want me to do?” Shepard spoke over him, his emotional volatility grating on her. “Just get him in position?”

A long quiet followed. Heart clenched and shoulders tight, Shepard refused to bow first and break the silence stretching like brittle plastic wrap around them, suffocating.

“Yeah,” Garrus said finally with great heaviness in his voice. “Yeah, get him in position. I can get a clear shot from up there.” The whirring behind her and soft breeze indicated he'd moved the car.

She found Sidonis quickly enough and waved him over. Sidonis came obediently, looking around him nervously. Even from a distance, he looked wary and on edge of everyone around him.There: she had Sidonis in a clear shot for Garrus.

But the shot never came.

She could hear his breathing heavy over the commlink, she could feel his eyes on the back of her head. She stared down Sidonis, focused only on the turian in front of her, not the one that had her head in his crosshairs.

“What’s going on?” Sidonis asked, jittery. Wouldn’t we all like to fucking know, Shepard thought bitterly.

“Tell him ...” Tension laced Garrus’ voice, mixed with indecision and regret.

“He’s not getting away with this,” Shepard replied firmly, not breaking eye contact with Sidonis.

“Who?” Sidonis inquired, looking more nervous. “The guy that compromised me?”

Shepard pursed her lips and nodded, waiting.

“No.” Any trace of hesitation was gone from Garrus. “No, he’s not. Tell him to follow you back to the car.” She didn’t let out a breath because she didn’t feel relieved. Just because Garrus wasn’t going to blow someone’s head off in front of a crowd didn’t mean the danger had passed.

“Okay,” Shepard replied, still looking at Sidonis. “Okay. Follow me.”

Swiveling, she gestured with her head to follow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sidonis argued, standing still, rubbing an arm subconsciously. "Seems dangerous."

“The only danger right now is how fast you'll get blown to pieces if you don't come with me; I don't want to get hit by the shrapnel."

Startled, Sidonis looked at her. His clear blue eyes searched hers, and although she wasn’t strong on turian expressions, she thought he looked defeated and pleading. After some time, he nodded, mandibles flaring in decision, and followed her lead. The crowd thinned and eventually, the shadows of tall buildings overpowered the artificial daylight. Behind her, Sidonis was on edge, getting tenser the farther from populated space that they got. “I don’t think --” Sidonis started again.

Shepard cut him off aggressively. “No, you don’t. That’s why you hired Fade. I don’t like being questioned, Sidonis.”

“Don’t!” Sidonis whispered, furious. “Don’t ever use that name! Where are we going?”

Seeing the car, Shepard turned to face him. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“I want to know where I’m going, and I’m giving the location to someone I can trust. You have no idea who’s out to get me! You don’t know!” He was sounding panicky now and losing control quickly. The turian raised his omnitool and waited. “I want an address!” he demanded frantically.

The car door lifted, opening. The second it started moving, Shepard had pulled out her SMG and had it trained on Sidonis. They were alone, the only light pooling from the windows of office skyscrapers and the headlights of the car. “Get in the car, Sidonis,” Shepard requested, perfectly polite. “It’s really in your best interest.”

Sidonis froze. He blinked, looked from the car to the gun, and back to the car. “Who’s ...”

“You know who’s in there.”

Mandibles quivering, Sidonis sidled sideways so that his back was never to Shepard. Stumbling slightly, he climbed into the backseat of the car. Shepard followed, never lowering her gun. A deep flanging voice splintered the tension and Sidonis, if turians could cry, looked on the verge of tears.

“Hello, Sidonis,” Garrus drawled. “So good to see you, alive and well. We have so much to catch up on.”

Shepard climbed in the backseat, bared her teeth in a savage smile, and pistol whipped Sidonis into unconsciousness.

\

They had rode in silence back to the Normandy. Shepard stewed, trying to piece together the day and predict Garrus’ next surprise.

 _Fuck_ , Garrus leaving the Normandy. As if she could ever allow that to happen -- as if, she thought angrily, she had ever allowed that thought to cross Garrus’ mind. When had she gotten so blind to him? First the ice, then the deep brewing resentment ... Even for Shepard, it stung her self confidence. Garrus had been the one thing she was sure about and that turned out to be a sack of shit. All too soon, the ride ended and they approached the docks. Garrus landed the car gently and opened up her side of the doors from his control panel. Shepard paused.

“Open your door too, Garrus,” Shepard ordered, not moving. He didn’t budge. Shepard lifted her omintool to her mouth and dialed in. “Lawson, tell Grunt to get out here. We need to carry --”

“No,” Garrus interrupted firmly.

Clenching her hand into a fist, Shepard forced out, “Hold on that, Lawson. Give me a minute.” She lowered her omnitool. “So, ready to talk?”

Garrus turned slightly to check if Sidonis was still unconscious, then turned back around so he was facing her in his seat.

“I’m not ready to come back.”

The words dropped into the space between them, lead and weighted. Shepard said nothing, only biting her lip. This was un-fucking-believable. This was not happening.

“I did _everything_ you asked,” Shepard finally seethed, still not looking at him. “I followed your lead, I cleaned up your messes, I helped you kidnap this” -- she jerked her head to the backseat -- “asshole. What more do you want from me, Vakarian?”

Garrus didn’t reply at first, turning to look out the side window and away from her. This only incensed Shepard. “Oh, right, real fucking mature. The silent treatment, why don’t you just --”

“I want ...” His strangled sentence cut her off and Shepard immediately shut up, listening hard. Okay, a list of demands. She could deal with this; at that moment, Shepard didn’t think there was anything she wouldn’t give him to convince him to stay.

“Yeah?” she prompted when he didn’t continue. Frustrated, and sounding far too close to pleading for her liking, Shepard said, “Please tell me, Garrus. _Please_. I can’t fucking read your mind, even with these cybernetics. We can work this out.”

“You were right back there, you know,” Garrus said, still soft spoken and not looking at her. “I was about to make a stupid call. This is better -- this will give me the closure I need. I know what I have to do. But you were right --”

“-- okay, I was right,” Shepard hurriedly finished for him. For the first time, being right didn’t feel good at all. She’d rather be wrong, have Garrus make a wry comment about it, and get back on the ship. “Whatever, happens all the time. Thought you’d be used to it by now.” She tried a cheeky grin but given he wasn’t looking at her, it had no effect. She sighed. “What are you gonna do with this guy, anyways?”

“I’m going to finish the job. What I started on Omega,” he explained stiffly. “Sidonis and I are going to make one last bang.”

“You don’t ...” Shepard swallowed, tensing in her seat. “You don’t literally mean a bang, do you? You’re not going to --”

“They think we’re dead,” Garrus said calmly. “They won’t see it coming. We can stroll right in.”

“No!” Shepard shouted, baffled and furious. She slammed her hand on her door control and the car door came down, shutting them off from the outside world. “No fucking way! You are not ... fuck me, Garrus, you’re gonna kamikaze them? Shit! No!”

“You can’t forbid it,” Garrus reasoned. “It’s not your call anymore.”

“You’re damn right it’s not! This is your call and it’s fucking stupid! What are you thinking? What are you -- holy shit, what is wrong with you? Why do you have to act like such a fucking crazy person when it comes to your old squad --”

“I’m not crazy,” he said, still sounding terrifyingly calm. “There will be killing until the score is paid, Shepard.”

Shepard regretted ever lending him that book. “You are _completely crazy_! You are -- I know you’re upset, Garrus, I really do. But it will get better, okay? Come on, your griefs will become joys, but only if you fucking live long enough to let that happen.”

“I won’t --”

“What are you going to do?! Strap bombs to yourself like glitter on a goddamn asari stripper!” Shepard exclaimed, taking off her helmet to better glare at him. Trying to sound reasonable, she soothed, “Listen to me. You are the best soldier I have ever met, Garrus. You are clear headed and rational and logical but _shit_ , when Omega comes up you’re like ...”

“Fine,” Garrus admitted, exhaling loudly and turning sharply to look at her, finally. “ _Fine!_ I am fucking insane! Do you like hearing that? Is that what you want me to say?”

“Not really,” Shepard said, voice shaking slightly.

“That’s too damn bad!” Garrus was angry now: well, that was just fucking great. “I am completely out of it! Look at me!” He turned in his seat as much as he could and gestured to himself. “I am an ex-cop that got fired from fucking _traffic patrol_ , a vigilante that got his whole squad killed, and a junkie soldier that’s only good half the time that he’s sober. What fucking use am I to you, Shepard? Why do you give a shit anymore?”

Shepard was taken aback by these admissions. She didn’t even have time to process them and come up with a reply before Garrus added, “Don’t even fucking answer that. I don’t need your lies, Shepard. I don’t want to be useful to you.”

Taking a deep breath, Shepard took her chances: “You’re right, you self-pitying piece of shit: I don’t need you.” Garrus winced, mouth twisting into a satisfied snarl. “I _want_ you, Garrus. I want you on my ship. I want you on my squad. And I definitely want you watching my back.” Now it was Garrus’ turn to be taken aback and Shepard seized his silence to continue, “This whole ... Archangel ... thing ... it got personal, and it needs to be put behind you. Once it is, you’ll be fine, okay? We will be okay.”

“I don’t think so,” Garrus disagreed bitterly.

“Why?” Shepard tried to sound politely curious, not demanding.

“The squad isn’t the only thing that makes me fucking crazy," Garrus muttered, almost to himself. More loudly, he said, "I have no idea what’s going on anymore.”

“Okay," Shepard agreed slowly. "Okay, everyone on the Normandy is a little bit crazy, that’s cool --”

“I don’t even trust my judgement anymore --”

“That’s what my judgement is for, buddy --”

“ _Don’t_!” Garrus glared at her. “Don’t buddy me, Shepard. You know what makes me equally inclined to lose my shit?” The tension in the car changed and Shepard held her breath.

“Your new Mantis?” she asked dryly, trying to ease things back to normal.

“You.”

Stunned silence. Shepard swallowed then dropped her gaze to her helmet, completely blasted backwards. Holy shit. “Wha -- what did you just say?”

Breathing hard through his nostrils, Garrus turned away from her. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Relieved, Shepard actually laughed. “Oh, shit, well I do that to people, come on ... I thought you meant --”

“I did mean.” He looked at her again, speaking now without any uncertainty in his bivocals. “I ... you ... you are _all_ I think about. Every day, every person I meet, every conversation I have, it always comes back to you. It’s a complete shit show. I ... I don’t even know when it started or how it happened, but Spirits you just -- I’ve been thinking about it a lot and -- back there, on that mission? I had this thought, I thought, I could just shoot straight through your head and kill you both at once. ”

“Holy fuck,” Shepard breathed. "Real nice of you." Garrus ignored her and ploughed on, dropping his gaze, almost talking to himself.

“I thought, shit. Shepard and Sidonis. End both of my obsessions at once. You ... _argh_ !” Garrus rested his elbows on the steering wheel, visibly reining himself in. Burying his face in his talons, he ground out: “You infuriate me, you kill me, you bring to the brink of killing you on a daily basis, you push me around and rattle me and just ... damn, make me deal with parts of myself that I never wanted to -- never _could_  -- face.” Sighing wearily, he pulled his head out of his hands and took off his visor off at the same time -- Shepard didn’t think she’d ever seen him without his visor on. Looking bizarrely naked, Garrus turned to face her. Still frozen by this outpouring of emotion, Shepard met his gaze, transfixed. In a steady voice, Garrus continued, “You are the only thing that has kept me going, from the day I met you. I want ...”

What he wanted, he didn’t say. Instead, with resignation, he said,  “You should go. I’ll ... be in touch. When I’m ready.”

Anger poured in, filling in the emptiness in her and warming the numbess. Incensed, she exclaimed, “Are you kidding me, you asshole? You’re leaving because you can’t get over some stupid crush on me?” This was so unlike him, so unlike .... anyone. She was used to people parting ways with her; naive, insipid, _weak_ people who couldn’t handle her methods and understanding of the world. Garrus, for all his faults, was none of the above. So to walk away because he liked her _too much_ ... How did that even make sense at all?

“It’s not a stupid crush!” Garrus looked so embarrassed at this admission that Shepard swore if turians could blush, he’d be doing it now. “Jay, I get it.” He’d never used her first name before and it felt so intimate and strange, like he’d grabbed her hand and stroked the back of her skin. For a moment, it mellowed her. “It’s totally fucked and inappropriate and probably disgusting, and I’m sorry. I can’t come back yet.”

“This is really fucking selfish, you know,” Shepard grumbled, folding her arms across her chest. “The stakes are higher than my lack of swooning for you.”

“I don’t want you to swoon,” Garrus implored. This time, he actually did reach over and grab one of her hands, forcing her to uncross her arms. “Shepard, I’m not walking away. I just need a few days; I need to get this out of my system. You can’t trust me to be around you right now.” He squeezed her hand in his talons.

“What are you going to do?” Shepard asked sarcastically. “Jump my bones while we’re taking off our armour?”

There was too long of a pause. Garrus’ gaze swept over, taking in her legs, her hands but lingering the longest on her waist. There was such intense, unabashed desire in the way he drank in the sight of her that Shepard felt very strange. She chalked it up to discomfort and shuffled in her seat, looking away. Garrus cleared his throat. Instead of saying anything, he hit the open button for her door again. Of all the ways this conversation could have gone, this, she did not see coming. Feeling blindsided, as though Garrus had physically punched her in the gut, Shepard clenched her fists and tried to breathe deeply. Fighting -- yelling at him, even -- would do no good. She wasn’t thinking straight and she _had_ to play her cards right if she had any chance of not losing him forever.

Shepard stepped out of the car.  When her feet touched the ground, she asked carefully, without turning back around: “Does that mean you’re not going to become a fucking suicide bomber?”

He made no sound so she turned to look over her shoulder. He appeared forlorn and lost in thought: a bad sign. The lone wolf extremist, Shepard thought ruefully. Drastic times, she supposed. “Garrus, please.” That caught his attention; he looked at her. After an eternity, he nodded slowly.  At tenderly as she knew how, which, even she knew, was not very tender at all, she pressed on: “I didn’t come back from the dead to have you die on me, okay?”

“I won’t make myself into a martyr,” he promised, still nodding. “I won’t.”

Garrus closed the door of the car, the reality of the conversation they had just beginning to sink in. Feeling a little out of body, Shepard clamoured back to the Normandy.

Garrus was gone.

Garrus was ... he had used words like _obsessed_. He’d also referred to his affections as a complete shit show, so then again ...

How had she not seen this coming? When had Garrus gotten so ... _mysterious_ ? So compulsive, so emotionally charged and reckless? What part of him had she missed, overlooked? _Dammit_ , how had he even found out about Sidonis at all? Thoughts whirling over her head, Shepard tried to swat them away to no avail. God _damn_ . The helpless feeling of losing grip on her crew, on her ship, on her _mission_ , attacked Shepard’s mind like a thousand stinging insects.

At the entrance to the Normandy, Miranda stood smoking on the docks. Shepard was undecided if this was a good thing or not. Upon seeing her Commander, Miranda dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out under her high heeled boot. With one look at Shepard’s face, Miranda arched a perfect eyebrow and inquired, “You look spooked, Shepard. What happened?”

Shepard was not in the mood to talk. Jawline hard, she bit out, “Just had a chat with Garrus. He’s taking a temporary leave.”

“How temporary?”

“That’s between him and I,” Shepard answered curtly, too proud to admit that she had no fucking clue and _shit_ , she hoped not too long.

Miranda eyed her coolly before nodding her acceptance. “I understand, Shepard, although I doubt our Justicar will be happy --" Shepard grimaced; she hadn't even thought of that "-- but in the meantime, Thane has a request for some assistance. I’d advise we do it: we can handle it easily while we’re still on the Citadel.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Shepard exploded unintentionally, leaning over the railing of the docks, both palms pressed against the cool metal. Head bowed, Shepard muttered, “Everyone just needs a fucking favour these days.”

“Thought you’d be happy to have a chance to gain some leverage,” Miranda consoled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Shepard agreed wearily. “Just been a long day, Lawson. Sick of people who think that just because they’re crazy about themselves, I’m crazy about them too.” Miranda said nothing, handing her silver cigarette case to Shepard. Flipping over to lean her back against the rail, Shepard accepted the case and pulled a long, thin cigarette out. She scoffed as she examined the demure cigarette. “Prissy little fags, huh?”

“Better than that charcoal you puff,” Miranda replied without missing a beat, albeit not unfriendly.

Relieved at the change in topic, Shepard mustered a cocky smirk with the cigarette dangling from her mouth. Without removing it, she asserted, “That’s a _real_ cig.” She used her rope burner to light the cigarette and took her first inhale. “It’s supposed to burn while it goes down.”

“Actually, I installed thermal adapters in the lining of your throat,” Miranda rejoined with a little too much pride. “Nothing is supposed to burn going down.”

Scowling, Shepard took another deep inhale and purposely blew the puff of smoke in Miranda’s face. Miranda wrinkled her nose but did not complain. Dryly, Shepard observed: “You just suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?”

Miranda gave her a smirk of her own. “You’re lucky I gave you a liver that let you get drunk at all.”

Shepard laughed in spite of herself. Taking a drag on her cigarette, eyes now fixed where Garrus’ car had been, she decided she was just glad to not be alone at the moment. She was even relieved when Miranda pulled out another cigarette and leaned against the railing to join her in silence, the steady rhythm of inhale and exhale like the drumming of peace.

\

The ship wasn’t the same without Garrus, even though they rarely spoke while starside or interacted as anything other than crew. All the same, without a Battery to haunt, Shepard took to spending time in her XO’s office. She sat, staring into her black coffee, hunkered over on the armless recliner in Miranda’s suite.

“So,” Miranda said suddenly, not even looking up from her computer. “I think I found out how Vakarian knew about your ... privileged information, regarding his old squad.”

Shepard froze, taking a moment to collect herself before spinning the recliner around to face Miranda better. She didn’t even ask before Miranda said, “I found some oddities in the access logs for our communication portal. I traced it back to our little spy.”

“Spy?” Shepard reiterated with interest. Now that was a dramatic choice in words.

Miranda nodded, leaning back in her seat and holding her coffee with both hands. “Perhaps not a _spy_ per sae, but someone who ... may not have your interests at heart.”

“Who?” Shepard prompted.

“Our quarian crewmate. Tali vas ... Junkbucket, or whatever they live on these days.”

Shepard pursed her lips, tensing. “You’re kidding? What’d she do?” Getting up, she moved to Miranda desk and leaned over to look at her monitor. “Show me!” she commanded unnecessarily.

Miranda tsked and put her coffee back down, moving to her keyboard. “It’s not that simple, there isn’t  a warning message that pops up and declares an invader has arrived.” All the same, Miranda pulled up a particular log file and touched the screen. “There,” she said definitively. “She was accessing your personal messages.”

Shepard felt her blood swell against her skin and her grip on her cup tightened. “My personal ...”

“Messages,” Miranda repeated.

That traitorous .... that _scheming_ ... “ _Fuck,_ ” Shepard hissed. “Fuck!” she exclaimed, louder. “What the fuck? What does that tinker bitch think she’s playing at, anyways? She comes on _my_ ship and starts going through _my_ files --”

“Shepard,” Miranda interjected, pausing midway in bringing her coffee cup to her mouth. Tilting her head at Shepard knowingly, she continued, “Shepard, let’s not be rash. She is a huge asset to the team; the engines have been running at almost a three point six percent efficiency increase since she arrived. We have to be logical about this.” Miranda brought the cup to her lips and took a sip, watching Shepard carefully.

Shepard gave her a withering glare, stalking back to the recliner. She collapsed, furious and spent. Stewing, she said firmly, “Fine. She’s an asset. But I _cannot_ tolerate this kind of behaviour. It’s fucking mutiny. Mutiny is a _disease_ , Lawson. It’ll spread.”

“I think you’re being a touch over-dramatic, Commander,” Miranda said, as unflappable as ever. “EDI,” Miranda ordered at no one in particular. “What other corroborating information do you have on Tali’s ... unseemly actions? What conclusions can we draw about her behaviour?”

“Operative Lawson,” EDI’s voice immediately responded politely. “Although I seem to have experienced some interference in Officer Vakarian’s quarters, based on her other communication logs and interactions with the rest of the crew, she seems concerned for Shepard.”

“Concerned?” Shepard spat but Miranda held up a hand to quiet her.

“Let’s hear EDI out,” Miranda reminded her. “Concerned? How so?”

“It appears that Tali believes that Shepard is no longer acting in the best interest of the galaxy, or the crew. She doubts her prime motive.”

“What?!” Shepard exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? All I have _ever fucking done_ is for this stupid galaxy, and these assholes on the crew --” _And stupid reckless turians whose life I fucking saved ..._

“Now is not the time to get angry,” Miranda warned again, crossing her arms. “We’re two crewman down and might lose another.” Shepard huffed, remembering that upon hearing that Garrus had left for Omega, Samara had immediately demanded to be let off the ship to follow him. Two squadmates down, fuck. Miranda argued, “ _Think,_ Shepard. Use that sociopathic brain of yours and _think_. If anyone knows how to solve this problem, it’d be you.”

Exhaling, Shepard leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. Watching the stars whirl past as the ship moved, Shepard thought, chewing over everything she knew. Tali had always over-romanticized their mission, had put too much stock in the heroic veneer of the SR1 to see the reality of the damage they caused to the galaxy. She was young, idealistic, and a new, rising star of a leader to her people.

“She needs ...” Shepard began slowly, thinking as she spoke. “She needs feel like a saviour again. Like she’s making a difference, and that I’m leading the way to do so.”

“Right,” Miranda agreed cautiously. “See that you mean well.”  
Shepard snorted. “That is such bullshit. Tali just wants to play hero, she wants to be patted on the back for doing a good job. It’s her stupid need for praise that makes her stick her air-sealed nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“So ...” Miranda mulled on this idea. “ _She_ needs to the hero.”

“Yeah,” Shepard said quietly, nodding. “She needs to be the hero. We need to find a situation where we can blaze in and save the day. Are there any stranded quarians anywhere? Distress signals?”

“Oh, damn,” Miranda swore aloud. She turned in her chair again and began typing furiously. “We don’t need to find one. We can _make_ one.”

“Okay,” Shepard looked up, leaning back in her chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Okay, I’m listening. ”

“Ha!” Miranda exclaimed victoriously, still looking at the screen. Turning to look at Shepard, her eyes glittered with ambition. Shepard cocked an eyebrow at this uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm from Lawson. “I just checked the tracking on some of the geth parts we planted on the quarian fleet. They’re still with the Migrant Fleet, and, they’re still active.”

“Active? I thought the quarians checked the parts for exactly that.”

“Not what _we_ do to them,” Miranda corrected, looking smug. “They’re looking for traditional signals of energy from geth parts, not the artificial sources we’ve attached. Because who would be crazy enough to find a _new_ way to power up spare geth parts?”

“So ...” Shepard tried to follow. “You’re saying, we could activate geth parts on a quarian ship?”

“Precisely,” Miranda confirmed. “It would be chaos -- and based on these tracking records, the quarians have been amassing _hordes_ of geth parts. They must be studying them as they prepare for something big. A war, maybe.”

“A war?” Shepard mused with exaggerated curiosity. With a deep graveness, Shepard theorized, “That would be horrific.”

“Truly horrific," Miranda nodded her assent. "Besides, the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without even having to fight."

“For sure," Shepard quickly followed. "We should ... Remind them why the geth are not to be trifled with. And if things go badly ..."

“I’ll have EDI activate the long range readers for alien distress signals.”

For the first time since Garrus had left, Shepard smiled, feeling like things were finally under her control again. Folding her hands over her stomach, she purred, “Well, shit. This is a good move, even for you.”

“It seems I do bring some fun into your life,” Miranda said with a half-smile.

Shepard barked a laugh. “All right, Lawson. You're all right.”

\

It was too damn bad that a good move had a bad ending for Tali. After leaving the Fleet, Shepard wondered if Lawson had known that the ship they’d be activating the geth parts on was the same research vessel that Tali’s father had been on.

Not that Shepard minded; this was risky business, and the less Shepard knew, the less suspicious Tali could be. Shepard stood by her decision; all the same, it had been awkward, even for Shepard, when they’d come across the dying body of Tali’s father. Shepard and Miranda had carefully avoided looking at each other as Tali wept, neither of them having the stomach to offer her comfort. Afterwards, Shepard had decided she couldn’t betray Tali’s father to the board; that would do the exact opposite of winning over the waning loyalty of a crewmate. She also couldn’t allow Tali to isolate herself from the Fleet; there _was_ a war coming, and the daughter of a late Admiral could be mighty valuable in the days to come.

So Shepard did what she did best.

“Tali vas Normandy willfully hid her father’s dangerous experiments, uncannily deceiving us all --” one of the quarian Admirals began during Tali's farce of a trial.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, try deleting those adjectives, and you might actually have the facts,” Shepard snapped back.

“I -- _we_ \-- don’t think --”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what you think,” Shepard snarled at the aghast Admiralty Board. “Tali vas Normandy is my crew, and I don’t agree to subject my crew to this bullshit trial.” She stepped away from the podium and turned away. “We’re out! Get you shit, Tali!"

And, as Shepard’s best usually did, it worked. Cleared of all charges and not getting exiled was a pretty good deal, Shepard calculated. All the same, picking at her dinner of some kind of fried salarian lab-grown tofu on a bed of a chewy, starchy leaf vegetable, there was a no real feeling of victory from the day’s events. Garrus hadn’t checked in, not even once, and Shepard was feeling antsy for the bastard. Only Miranda sat with her for company, delicately picking morsels of her own meal. Silence stretched between them, heavy, and Shepard picked up her glass of wine again. The bottle, at least, was well indulged into. When Miranda saw, she pushed her own empty wine glass forward as well for a refill.

“Too bad about her dad,” Shepard said finally, the idea of more sullen silences with more crewmates driving her mad. “But the important thing is that Tali’s devoted to the Normandy again, with or without Garrus --”

“I’m not concerned about the quarians,” Miranda said in a clipped tone, swirling her golden wine around in its glass. “We did what we had to do.”

“Exactly,” Shepard confirmed, wishing she hadn’t run out of cigarettes. She crossed her arms instead, drumming her fingers on her forearms. “We did.”

Watching her and nodding, Miranda continued hesitantly, “But you're right. It is ... too bad about her father, though. You and I had shitty excuses for father figures, but ... she really loved him, didn’t she?”

Shepard nodded. Then she shrugged. “If Tali hadn’t been snooping around, if she hadn’t gone behind my back like that ... never would have happened. Her own damn fault.”

Miranda gave her a wistful half smile. “Always so tough, so impenetrable. Isn’t there anyone in your life you’d be crushed to lose? Haven’t you ever loved anyone?”

Shepard tilted her head back and looked at Miranda through the slits of her eyes. “What the fuck is this? Some booze-fueled sentimentality, Lawson?”

Miranda did look a little red-faced from the alcohol. She smirked victoriously. “Way to change the topic, Shepard. So there _is_.”

“Was, has been, sure,” Shepard agreed casually. She hadn’t thought about it in a very long time. Even losing Ashley Williams hadn’t really shaken her; it had been unfortunate, she’d liked the tough gunner, even if her stories from a wholesome upbringing had occasionally grated on Shepard's nerves. But that had been a necessary loss, a strategic decision; nothing worth losing sleep over.

“What about Vakarian?” Miranda asked.

Shepard jolted back to the present moment and immediately replied, “What about?”

Miranda quirked an eyebrow at this defensiveness. “I just meant, do you miss him?”

Shepard relaxed and shrugged again, leaning back in her seat. “Sure. He was fun, a good soldier. It’s a bummer.” She reached forward to grab her glass and took a sip. “He’ll come around. He’s just being an idealistic idiot right now.” Frowning, Shepard thought aloud: “People like him, always barging in, guns blazing with heroics ... fuck. It takes more courage to be smart than brave.”

Miranda laughed and raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.” Shepard smiled too and joined Miranda in downing her glass of wine. All she could hope for, she supposed, was that Garrus -- wherever he was, whatever the hell he was doing -- would focus on being smart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe", Adams. “Yeah ... you go to pieces so fast people get hit by the shrapnel.”  
> "The Odyssey", Homer. “The killing won’t stop until the score is paid."  
> "The Odyssey", Homer. “Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured."  
> "The Catcher in the Rye," Salinger. "Just because they're crazy about themself, they think you're crazy about them, too, and that you're just dying to do them a favor."  
> "The Art of War," Tzu. “Supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."  
> "To Kill a Mockingbird," Lee. “Atticus told me to delete the adjectives and I'd have the facts.”


	14. Vichitra, Bhishani, Mahendri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The second chapter of [ bind and unbind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6781756/chapters/15834088), the prequel to this fic, is also up, if you're interested.
> 
> 2) I wrote a one-shot from this renegade universe of Garrus and Jay Shepard meeting for the first time in ME1, with my usual take on it (read: in a bar). [ Check it out!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7183937)

His omnitool crackled with a weak signal.

He glanced around the long-abandoned building; they’d settled in here, where he could see the compound’s headquarters out the window. Dark grey smoke from the industrial strength fires would have obscured his normal vision but with his visor, he could make out distinct shapes and biometric features. He peered over the ledge, careful not to hit any rubble and send it clattering.

“I see you,” he replied curtly.

“Are you sure I have to --”

“Keep moving,” Garrus ordered. Stick to the plan, Sidonis, he thought bitterly. _For once in your fucking life, your harmless appearance might actually do someone some good._

He was to leave his omnitool on; Garrus wanted to hear everything. Everything until he couldn’t anymore, that was to say.

 _“What the fuck are you doing around here,”_ a gruff voice demanded. Garrus leaned in to hear, straining his ears. Even while exerting effort to expand his listening, his eyes remained alert, scanning the crumbling room periodically. Samara could handle patrol, she was more than capable, but old instincts died hard.

 _“I was compromised,”_ Sidonis replied, his voice muffled too. Dammit; soon they’d be out of range. No response from the guards; not good. Sidonis tried again: “ _I heard Archangel was on the loose; I didn’t want to take any chances.”_

 _“Not our problem, punk,”_ another voice, female, sneered at him.

 _“Yeah, it is,”_ Sidonis snapped back, sounding braver than Garrus had ever remembered him. But perhaps his memories had been tainted, clouded by the forever oncoming storm of Sidonis’ cowardice.

_“Don’t fucking tell us what to do --”_

_“I want to talk to Valeesa,”_ Sidonis cut in firmly. Garrues let out a breath of relief; stick to the script, he thought. Just stick to the damn script and this would go fine. No one was supposed to know that Valeesa, the queen of bootlegged pharmaceuticals, was Omega-side. No one but Aria, and dropping a name like Shepard got him places.

It was a sign of how focused he was that he didn’t wince at all when he thought of her name. She -- even in name only -- had been useful to him. That was worth something.

The guards must have nodded something or spoken far from the commlink, because Garrus didn’t hear their assent. The next words to come from the male guard were: _“All right. Arms up; no weapons near her.”_

A long few minutes pass and Garrus stopped breathing again without realizing.

If they found it, if they were smart enough, careful enough --

_“All right, in.”_

It was only a matter of time now. Conversations were garbled and scattered from the encryption technology surrounding the base and the increasing distance as Sidonis moved deeper in the station. But Garrus had painstakingly counted out the levels, using data corroborated from his Archangel days on Omega.

His visor blinked; three minutes passed. Sidonis would be one level deep.

Another three minutes; another level deeper into the base.

Five minutes; Sidonis would be three more levels deep, the distance between each level closing.

Samara returned from her patrol, her assault rifle still in both hands. She nodded at him again; right on time. Garrus felt strangely grateful for her punctuality (was he scared he would lose the nerve?).

Garrus reached to his belt and found the remote. There was no way Sidonis could have removed it; you couldn’t remove ingested chemical explosives, force fed only hours before. Even if Sidonis had wanted to back out, there would have been no point: the chemical solution would kill him eventually from its toxicity. “You’re going to die today, one way or another,” Garrus had told him calmly, tilting Sidonis’ head back to expose his mouth. “Let’s make your death worth something. That’s more than you gave the squad.”

He felt very out of body and absent and simultaneously focused. He felt in control; he felt a voice in his head congratulate his calculated plan (the voice sounded suspiciously like Shepard but he paid no mind to that thought).

He pressed down on the trigger.

After a delay of seven seconds, there was an enormous _boom_ from below as the base went up in smoke. Screams followed after, erupting as successively as the fires from leaking fuel tanks and damaged vehicles.

There was no glass in any of the windows, so Garrus and Samara only had to cover their heads from any dislodged debris from the explosion. When it was safe, Garrus peered over the window ledge again. Anyone else would have seen only black smoke and huffs of dust, as if all of Omega was smoking a cigarette and exhaling on this one gang base.

But Garrus put a hand on his visor band, where he knew eleven names were etched into the frame, and let his visor narrow in on the body count. He watched the thermal signature of once live bodies fade quickly, one after the other, with clinical satisfaction.

“It is just,” Samara remarked quietly beside him. “He died with honour.”

Garrus wanted to snap at her, argue the point, but a voice, that damn Shepard-sounding voice, reminded him that Samara only respected him for what she had mistakenly taken as his superior morals. Swallowing his bitter comments about the dead turian he’d once called a friend, Garrus nodded.

“He did.”

\

Samara needed a favour. Of course she did.

Shepard would have been _delighted_ to find out that in the end, the Justicar was as mercenary and self-interested as the rest of them. But Garrus wasn’t thinking about Shepard; he was not thinking about the humiliating, raw conversation they’d had in a car with the late Sidonis Lantar in the backseat.

Garrus Vakarian needed a drink, somewhere far away from Samara and thoughts of Shepard and the rubble from the Omega attack. Samara was gathering evidence about murders she thought were linked to her psychotic daughter and Garrus was happy to let her handle that on her own.

Not Afterlife, the thinking part of his brain clicked away. Aria would notice him, and he didn’t want to be noticed, not tonight. Somewhere darker, more crowded, less civilized than Afterlife, if such a place existed.

Luckily, this was Omega, and Garrus found what he was looking for: an old warehouse that had been repurposed into a pulsing, electro-metal dance club, where the grinding of the music was matched only by the grinding of bodies from every alien in the galaxy. Old conveyer belts had been repurposed into sliding drink carriers and cranes that had once been a testament to industry now had cages hanging from them, where smokey eyed asari danced listlessly, wearing only glitter. The music was eerie, in Garrus’ opinion -- like a child’s nursery tune turned dark and sordid, a relentless base with tinkling chimes for melody.

It wasn’t _exactly_ where he wanted to be. But he would get there. He took a seat at the bar, resting forearms on the sticky surface, pressed in on all sides by drunk club goers.

The squad was over, finally. A drink.

Fuck it, a drink for each of their names: Erash, Monteague, Mierin, Grundan Krul, Melenis, Ripper, Sensat, Vortash, Butler, Weaver.

He was feeling wobbly, steadying himself with one hand on the counter. How much time had passed? How many friends had he lost?

A drink for Ashley.

While drowning in thoughts of the dead, another, horrible thought wrenched itself from the walls of his mind and floated front and centre. Soon, it would be a drink to his mother, too, on these kinds of night, it whispered. Panic blew up more powerfully than alcohol in his system and Garrus stumbled from his bar stool, spilling his drink as he left. Thoroughly drunk, he pushed through the crowd of strangely dressed aliens, wearing every combination of chains, spikes, leather and obscenely bright colours as possible. _Someone_ here had to have some -- he had gone through the last of what he had, and there was no Kasumi here ...

“Ooh, you look lost, sweetheart,” an asari voice accompanied a soft, feminine hand gripping his arm. He turned (he thought he turned sharply, but in reality, it was sluggish and bleary-eyed). She was one of the dancers from the cage; although off duty now, maybe, because she’d slipped on a scrap of cloth that passed as a dress. “You all right?”

“Ice!”

She snickered. “You seem nice, too,” she replied loudly and dryly over the noise, having misheard him.

They were pushed closer together by a change in current in the crowd. By this point, Garrus did not care anymore. “No, _ice_ ,” he shouted to be heard over the new song, louder than the last, and the crowd started jumping more than dancing. “Can you hook me up?”

The asari leaned back, studied him, and a coy smile came to her lips. She leaned in again, pointedly pressing herself into his chest, and said, “I can get you what you need, babe.” She grabbed his talon and led him away from the thrashing, chaotic hell of the dance floor, to the back door.

\

The jitters subsided as quickly as they came as she pulled the needle from his neck. She’d injected it into the soft skin between his plates for him in the quiet bedroom, lit only by star light coming through the wall to wall windows.

“It’ll come fast,” she breathed into his ear. The asari was straddling him on the bed and she leaned over to put the needle on the bedside table. “Faster than the powder.” She draped her arms on his shoulders as he sank backwards, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. He tilted his head back and she took it as an invitation, ducking her head to start sliding her tongue over his scales. The hum of ice crawling over his veins began, a frost settling just under his skin and his mind. He tilted his head lazily to the side to give the asari -- Spirits, he still didn’t know her name -- better access. Nice, he thought. It felt nice, luxuriating in the pleasure of either the drug or her touch, the two now indistinguishable.

Her hands slid over his armour, unlocking pieces and latches with expert knowledge. He rolled accordingly, letting her remove pieces, each movement making the room swim.

Garrus felt his mandibles flare as he plates started shifting under his clothes. The asari noticed and slipped a hand between his legs, over his crotch but still above the fabric of his clothes. Lips right by his ear, she bit it and breathed, “Do you want to fuck me before or after we meld?”

Garrus hips bucked at the words _fuck me_ and he flipped them both over so he was on top of her. For a moment, the whole room spun with him and he had to drop his head into her neck, breathing deeply to stop feeling sick. He looked up, moved gingerly to lie beside her instead, waiting for the room to stop swirling.

“I’m not ...” His words slurred together. “I’m not in a great state to ...” He gestured at their bodies helplessly.

“Had a couple drinks before I found you, huh?” she teased, rolling onto her side too, so they could face each other. She brought a hand to his face, stroking the scars. More sober, Garrus might have been self-conscious, but in this moment, it felt so glorious that he almost purred and nuzzled his face deeper into her hands. She laughed in delight.

“We can still meld,” she suggested keenly. “You just have to let me in. You know, if you want.”

Garrus dropped onto his back, eyes on the ceiling, starting to feel his vision tunnel. He nodded. “Okay, do it soon, though. I might not make it.”

The asari slunk back to her knees and crawled over him on all fours. Vaguely, he noticed her eyes go solid black and she said something about _embracing eternity_ and then _oh fuck, Spirits_ she was inside his mind, caressing every corner of his thoughts, massaging out his desires and running her soft hands over his secrets. He was too drunk and too high to hold anything back, to guard his thoughts at all while she ravaged his head, and it felt _good_. Fleeting images of glowing scars, hard eyes and the smell of cigarettes passed over him, filling him with pleasure.

When it was over, the last thing Garrus remembered the asari saying before he slipped into unconsciousness was something like, “Goddess, you’re _obsessed_ with her ...”

\

His head was still pounding when he arrived at the Afterlife VIP lounge the next night, on the prowl for the most dangerous asari he’d ever have to encounter. He’d had all day to recover from his hangover but still he felt dizzy if he moved too quickly. Samara had sworn she’d protect him from the shadows and Garrus was just going to have to go with that. She’d abandoned ship to follow her oath to him; the least he could do was see this favour through, to the end. Her own damn daughter; that was cold, he couldn’t help but think.

In contrast to last night, the music was at a respectable level, the crowd much better dressed and the floors didn’t stick to his feet as he walked. Shepard would hate this pretentious place -- no, he wasn’t thinking of Shepard. He could deal with that later.

When he found Morinth, lounging in a booth with a gaggle of attractive lounge members surrounding her, he didn’t think he would have much of a chance getting her attention. What had Samara told him, again? Make a scene. Do something heroic to catch her attention, but don’t look like you started it. Bitterly, Garrus thought his days of heroics were long over, and that he’d like nothing better than to start a good brawl and beat the shit out of the poor fool to get in his way. Luckily, another solved his problem for him.

“Hang on -- I know your face,” a sour turian voice observed, walking up to where Garrus leaned on the wall with his virgin cocktail because even just the smell of alcohol made him feel sick all over again. (Shepard always said something about _hair of the dog_ but Garrus had no idea what she meant and besides he wasn’t thinking about her anyways).

“It’s a memorable face,” Garrus replied sardonically, intentionally tilting his scarred side to catch the light emanating from the dance floor.

“No,” the turian growled. His scales were grey and his marks a bright yellow. “No, _fuck you_. You’re Archan --”

Garrus moved quickly, shoving his glass into the turians gut so hard it shattered in his talons. It wasn’t enough to seriously hurt the other turian though, so Garrus took the remaining shattered glass piece in his talon and pushed it upwards, stabbing the turian through his chest plates before he could even register the attack.

“You --” the turian wheezed, but Garrus knew he’d hit the man’s vocal chords and those were the last words the turian would be speaking for a while. Blue blood started dripping on the floor between them and Garrus pushed off the wall, walking away. Well, that hadn’t gone well, there was nothing heroic about --

“Did I hear right?” Morinth prompted with glee, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, standing beside him at the bar. Okay, he had her attention, then. But he had to play his cards right.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrus replied coldly, not looking at her. He caught the bartender’s attention.

She leaned in to his ear and whispered, _“Archangel_.”

Garrus felt a very powerful pull towards her, almost involuntary, but he fought it and continued to focus on the bar in front of him, pretending to ponder his selection of scotch. Morinth, without invitation, started tracing a finger down his arms.

“But not the dear, sweet angel that these people admired,” Morinth continued, casting a scornful gaze around the room. She leaned in again, pushing into his arm so he was forced to tilt and look at her. “I can smell it on you. The _stain_ . Goddess, the _filth_ on you. I heard you were beautiful out there, on the battlefield.”

Garrus was looking at her now; she was breath-taking. Her lips were wide and full, revealing porcelain white teeth in a seductive, secret smile. Freckled marks speckled over her cheekbones gave a false illusion of innocence; dark makeup around her eyes hinted at experience. If this was any other night, and he hadn’t known just what she was, Garrus might have tumbled into her bed easily.

On the other hand, if he hadn’t know what she was, he probably wouldn’t have been able to play it so cool. Morinth would have no interest in _that_ Garrus, he thought.

He narrowed his eyes. Her words didn’t hurt him; they couldn’t, when he knew she was a lethal sexual predator who was in no place to judge other people for their supposed filth. So he had to work hard to sound hurt when he replied, “I’ve made my choices. I can live with them fine without your childish romanticizations. Leave a man be.” For emphasis, he dragged a bar stool over to sit, but Morthin caught his arm.

“You’re right,” she agreed too easily. “I’ve been watching you. You ... you’re not like the others here.”

“That’s because I’m on the outs with the frozen lady,” he snapped back, feeling inspired. “Not feeling very social, if you hadn’t noticed. If you can’t help me out, go.”

“Ice?” she inquired politely. “No, sorry, not my thing. I like feeling _alive_ when I’m high.”

“Yeah?” Garrus asked, feigning more interest. He thought back to what Samara had told him of what she’d learned of her daughter’s behaviour. “Like hallex?” It was like last night all over again, he thought wearily, except last night he’d actually been at the mercy of a beautiful asari taking pity on his using.

A slow smile spread on her face. “I have some. Want to get out of here?” Here we go again, he thought. Following a flighty sprite to some promised world of pleasure ... Try to stay conscious this time.

\

The couch creaked under their weight as she shifted, straddling him. He was perched on the edge of the seat, his calf spurs not letting him sit any closer, and the resulting angle had her tilted even closer to him. She was nestled into the crook of his neck, darting her tongue into the soft, sensitive skin between scales. Garrus threw his neck back to give her easier access and felt a groan crawl through his throat and escape.

He could _but_...

That wasn’t ... the plan...

Plan? He thought wearily. What plan?

 _Samara_...

“Give in to me,” Morinth ordered, cupping his face in her hands. Deja-vu: dizzy and drowsy in the arms of a beautiful, sinister woman. Morinth paused and pulled her head back, eyes fading back to normal. “Not the one you want, though, huh.”

Oh shit, had he thought that out loud? Did that even make sense? Memories started floating to surface and Garrus tried to pull them back but he was ... so, so tired and ... _Spirits_ it was like trying to catch petals that had been tugged into a strong breeze and ...

“That bitch!” Morinth screamed, throwing herself off of him. “My mother sent you, didn’t she?” Suddenly, instead of warm and pleasurable, Garrus felt a lurching pull as purple energy surrounded him. What little energy he had left was being pulled out of from between his organs, his body collapsing in on itself ...

And then it was over and there was a scream.

Furniture shattering ... Garrus groaned and realized he was on the floor. When had he gotten here? Every bone felt splintered by pain and he rolled to one side, trying to push himself up and see what was happening. More crashing and whirls of blue light -- Samara and Morinth were fighting. So she had come, after all.

Movement stopped and there was only bright, ferocious light. Shielding his eyes, he saw Samara and Morinth locked into a biotic standoff. “Vakarian!” Samara shouted over the whirring sound of biotic energy pressed against each other. “We can finish her, together!”

“ _No_!” Morinth shouted back, arms outstretched, the strain in her voice. “Garrus, I’ve seen my mother’s mind, I know what she wants! She will kill her, Garrus! You know she will! She has to!”

Garrus didn’t have to ask the identity of _her_.

He turned slowly, vision clearing, to see Samara, waiting for her to deny it. Waiting for her to implore that she wouldn’t, she would never ...

_Commander, I fear that your methods are careless, needlessly endangering innocent lives. I cannot abide by your rule._

Without thinking, without allowing himself to feel anything, Garrus scrambled forwards and grabbed Samara’s abandoned assault rifle. Samara locked eyes with him but said nothing. He took aim on her saddened, disappointed face and fire once. Twice. Three times.

Morinth, now with the upper hand from a weakened Samara, finished the job. Samara flew, hit the wall and crumpled like a rag doll on the ground.

Quickly, quickly, he had to think quickly. He couldn’t be alone with this creature for long, he thought. He needed help before Morinth turned on him. Fumbling and shaken, he keyed into his omnitool for the one person who would get him out of this situation, no questions.

She answered on the first ring. “Garrus?” she said by way of greeting, her tone crisp and professional. “You’ve done what you need?”

Trying to steady his voice, forcing away the subharmonics that would give away his shock, he answered: “More.” Swallowing his fear and his pride, he almost begged, “I really need your help, Shepard.”

There was a moment of silence on the other line that seemed to go on for hours. Finally: “Figures. Where’s your ass at?”

\

The next few hours passed in a blur for Garrus. He felt terribly numb and wide eyed. He couldn’t comprehend why; he’d killed many before, _many_ , but he couldn’t get the image of Samara’s final disappointed eyes out of his head. Every time he looked anyone in the eyes, he saw her face again, and he’d avert his gaze and freeze up.

Ice. He needed a trip to the ice giant _, now_.

Shepard and Morinth were handling things, and he felt like he was seeing them like watching a movie only in his periphery vision.

“The squad can’t know ...”

“Her armour fits me fine ...”

“You think you can handle the Collector Base?”

“Garrus saved my life,” Morinth smiled coquettishly. “I owe him this one.”

Shepard gave her a cold stare. “If you try and fuck him, I’ll kill you.”

“A little territorial, no?”

“Bitch, I heard all about you. I don’t like it when people start killing my crew.” Shepard stepped closer to Morinth, staring her down. “Even if it’s because they're so sexually deformed they can’t help it. That’s not a fucking excuse, in my books. Are we clear?”

Morinth nodded.

Garrus felt sick. Back on the Normandy, Garrus got very, very stoned. He had walked right past Tali's eager hello and shut himself in his room.

\

Days later, he was still stoned. He hadn't taken a ground side mission since returning to the Normandy. He didn't care.

\

Lying awake in his bed, wondering if he should do another hit or get something to eat, his omnitool started buzzing. He lifted it to his face and sighed. It was only a matter of time.

“Can you be sober for like, a _few hours_ ?” Shepard asked sharply. Garrus didn’t reply. “Oh for fuck’s -- get up here, Garrus. I know you’re awake. I want to see you in my cabin. _Now_. I don’t like repeating myself.”

Without replying, he dropped his wrist to the side of the bed again and breathed deeply. He should shower, he thought. He hadn’t showered since that first one, after coming back on the Normandy, realizing he was covered in some of Samara’s blood.

Carefully, he pushed himself off his cot and steadied himself with one talon on the wall, feeling vertigo. He keyed a message into his omnitool to Shepard: _Be there in half an hour. Cleaning up._

\

When he got to her room, she seemed to have used the time to do the same thing: the shower was running but there was no Shepard in sight. He had also brought a bottle of levo wine in a peace offering -- he saw a bottle of dextro wine on her coffee table. In spite himself, he smiled a bit. Not so different, after all.

Settling on the couch, he cracked open the dextro wine and poured himself a glass. Tart and light; she remembered how he liked his wine. Another nice touch.

The bathroom door hissed open and steam escaped into the room, temporarily shrouding her into only a silhouette. Garrus started, noting that she was in only a fluffy white towel wrapped firmly around her. With another towel in hand, drying her alien hair, she looked almost peaceful. When she noticed him, she didn’t start at all. Her eyes went immediately to the wine on the table and smirked.

“Same idea,” Garrus offered lamely when he saw where her eyes fell.

“There is no such thing as a new idea, Garrus,” Shepard declared, dropping the towel that she’d been using on her hair. She let it fall carelessly on the ground in a crumpled heap and Garrus, without meaning to, wondered what it would be like if she let the one wrapped around her body fall too.

“Hey,” Shepard began, draping herself onto the couch perpendicular to him, crossing one leg over the other. The towel hit her mid thigh and her legs were tightly pressed together, but Garrus found his eyes wandering ... “My eyes are up _here_.” There was laughter in her words, no bite.

Garrus jerked back to reality and met her eyes. Oh no, oh fuck, if only he hadn’t ... if he ... “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t --”

“It’s okay,” Shepard interrupted. She studied him a moment then ordered, “Pour me some wine, okay?”

Garrus nodded and with careful, deliberate movements he poured her a glass of wine, the red liquid splashing up the sides of the glass. He avoided looking at her when he passed her the glass. “Hmmm ...” Shepard hummed as she sipped her first taste. She pulled the glass from her face and looked at it. “Not bad, Vakarian. Not bad at all. You do have taste, I guess. But we already knew that.” Garrus, horrified, realized she was _hitting_ on him.

Not now, he thought. He couldn’t do this after he --

“Maybe I should go,” Garrus decided, standing up.

Shepard looked genuinely startled. “What? Why?” Her still damp hair was pressed against her shoulders and forehead, her skin glistening under the light. Spirits, he wondered what that skin would feel like under his talons, his tongue ... but he couldn’t after ... “Sit back down, come on. We have to talk.” Garrus obeyed, collapsing back onto the couch.

“What are you doing, Jay?” Garrus pleaded. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Doing this _to_ you?” Shepard repeated. She frowned, swirling her wine around. “I thought ... well, thought you were into me. You made that clear enough, the way your eyes seems to be stripping me naked.” She gave him a grin that would have made him laugh in a different circumstance. Instead, he felt light headed and he gripped his pants tightly.

“I can’t, Shepard,” he said, shaking his head. “It’d be wrong, I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” Shepard asked.

“I ... after Samara, I ...”

Shepard nodded, scooting closer to him. She lowered her voice and sounded almost soothing. “Okay, I get it. That was some fucked up shit.” She put a hand on his thigh. “It’s fine, okay? I’m sure you made the right call.”

“I ...” He looked up to meet her eyes instead of staring at her hand. He knew how he came across now; exhausted, eyes wild, vocals strained and weak. “I mean, I don’t ... I _want_ but that’s why I ...” She waited patiently for him to finish. Unable to meet her eyes, he looked away. “I killed her because of this _..._ ‘stupid crush’ of mine, Shepard. I killed her because ... _Spirits_ , she said she was going to ...”

“Kill me?” Shepard finished helpfully.

Garrus looked up sharply. “You knew?”

Shepard shrugged and leaned back, sipping on her wine. “Morinth told me; to be honest, I kind of figured she would. I figured the only reason she hadn’t already was because you ordered her not to, or something.” Eyes hardening, she dumped the rest of the wine back in her mouth and handed the empty glass to him. He was gaping at her and didn’t move to refill her glass. “What? Come on, that woman was the _paragon_ of justice and nobility. And I’m ...” She gave a harsh but proud laugh. “I’m not, Garrus. I’m her worst nightmare. I’d have done the same thing, in your place.”

Garrus almost asked _really?_ in disbelief, but immediately decided that Shepard was telling the truth. It was precisely the kind of thing she would do. It didn’t make him feel much better though. Before he could contemplate this further, Shepard shifted again, coming in close so she was nestled right beside him. She reached one hand over and cupped his face, bringing him towards her. “Garrus,” she said firmly. “You did what you had to, okay? Maybe it was to protect me. Maybe Morinth still had a hold on you. Did you think about that?”

Garrus scrunched up his face, thinking. He hadn’t considered that, actually. “No,” he agreed heavily. “No, I hadn’t. But still, I --”

She kissed him.

Garrus was so startled by this action, this so distinctly human action, that he pulled back almost instantly. Shepard chuckled a bit and said, “No, you have to press _back_ , Garrus. C’mon. I’m trying to teach you how to kiss, here.” She went in again to grab his mouth but he pulled back.

He was looking at her saucer-eyed. “What the -- Spirits, Shepard, what’s going on? What are you --”

She put a finger on his mouth, which Garrus could only interrupt as _be quiet_ , and moved to straddle his lap. After being celibate for months since joining the Normandy, Garrus seemed to be on a hazy domino ride of women latching onto him. What was going _on_ ? He was s o surprised by her actions, he let her squeeze her thighs around his hips. Her -- well, where he imagined -- _opening_ was pressed against his abdominal and even through his clothes, Garrus felt the heat of her alien sex.

“Okay,” she breathed, perched on top of him. “Let me take care of you, okay?” Was he dreaming? Was he actually in an ice hole, fantasizing about this moment?

Bucking his hips upwards, talons digging into her thighs, Garrus rolled his head back and groaned. The towel gave way and fell open. It still hung on her body, stuck to her moist skin, but now exposed her breasts. Feeling the strain of his desire growing against his plates, he pulled her closer and pushed his forehead into her breasts.

Oh Spirits, the _flesh_ , it was so soft. Even softer than an asari, an absolute feast on his scales, _fuck_ \--

Shepard gasped and arched backwards, the towel dropping off entirely and now naked on his lap. Garrus moved his talons to her lower back and pulled her closer, ignoring everything else he’d felt in the last few days, in the last few _months_. This was adrenaline and high and pleasure blended together, concocting the antidote to every failure, every poor decision he’d made in the past. He brought his tongue out to lick her sternum, running it through the skin between her breasts. She arched deeper, thrusting her pelvis into him and he brought his hands up so she could hold them while leaning back.

Spirits, she was rocking her hips against his abdominal and those sounds ... were those his panting breaths or hers? He just ... all he wanted was ... “Jay,” he rasped out.

“Mmm?” she managed, using her grip on his hands to pull herself back up, sitting in his lap. She put her hands on his face. “This is what you want, right? I can give you this.” Garrus heart dropped through his stomach and onto the floor. Of course that’s what this was about -- he was an idiot. A foolish, naive son of a bitch.

Head still tilted back and looking at the ceiling, breathing hard, he said, “No, it’s not.” She ran her hands up his chest, digging fingers between plates and caressing the soft underskin.  “Fuck!” he exclaimed when she found a particularly sensitive point on his waist. His talon shot up and grabbed her adventurous hands and he stopped it from playing with him. “Shepard, this isn’t what I want.”

Frowning, she studied him and said, picking her words carefully, “Yes it is; you want me, that’s what you said. You’re into me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he agreed, still holding her wrist in his talon, vividly remembering so long ago when they’d fought in that pub. Spirits, he’d almost snapped her wrists in half -- what was wrong with him? He couldn’t even remember blacking out into rage, it was almost a type of indoctrination of his emotions.

“So,” she still spoke in the careful tone, as if talking to someone very daft or possibly insane. “I’m giving you ... what you want ...”

“No,” he said heavily, dropping her wrist and resting his talons on the flesh of her thighs again. He looked her in the eyes when he said, “No, you’re trading me for what I want. You’ll fuck me, and in exchange, I don’t leave again, right? It’s just a maneuver for you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it _that_ crassly,” she rejoined, resting her hands on his talons. “It’s more like a ... mutually beneficial arrangement. You get to have sex with me -- and I’m not complaining, I think you’re a pretty good looking turian -- and ... yeah.” She looked him steadily in the eyes back when she said, “Yeah, I want you to stay. If this is what it takes, I’m okay with it.”

“I don’t _want_ a trade, Shepard,” he said, barely above a whisper, his heart pumping pain and not blood anymore. He brought his talons to her face and cupped it gently. Careful not to scratch her already scarred face, he added in a clenched tone: “I want you to give yourself to me. No trading.”

She pulled back, putting her hands over his and bringing them off her face. She asked, “Why?”

“Because I want you to _want_ me, Shepard,” he answered, one mandible flaring weakly.

She pushed herself off the sofa and turned away from him, scooping her towel off the ground and wrapping it around herself again. Without turning around she said, “I’m trying, Garrus -- I’m really fucking trying. I want to make you happy. I can’t ... What you want from me ... that’s not going to happen. I just can’t, Garrus. I really fucking can’t.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want me,” he said quietly, looking at the floor. “It’s okay. I don’t expect that.”

“I -- _ugh_!” Shepard flopped onto the bed, lying on her back. Staring at the ceiling now, she said, “It’s not that I don’t want you. I told you, I don’t have a problem with sleeping with you. It’s really not a big deal.”

“It would be,” he argued, still swallowed up by this strange melancholy gentleness. “It would be for me. You’re ... you’re everything to me, Shepard.” He got up from the couch and came to sit on the bed beside her. “You’re about the only thing I haven’t completely fucked up, and even that’s questionable. Everything else I’ve done in my life -- my family, my C-SEC career, the botched Spectre candidacy, the ... _hubris_ of mine on Omega -- I’ve really managed to screw up.” Leaning onto his thighs, resting on his elbows, he sighed heavily. “I’ve come pretty damn close to screwing us up, too.” He looked back over his shoulder at her and tried to give her a reassuring smile. “I’d rather keep what we have than risk getting hurt like that, Shepard. After everything we’ve been through -- everything I’ve done for you, I just ... the idea of just trading me a fuck is ...” He grimaced. “Shitty, Shepard. Shittier than maybe even we could have recovered from.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “You want _something_ , Garrus. Don’t bullshit me.”

“No, I don’t,” he insisted. He turned so one leg was on the bed and he was facing her. “I don’t, okay? I’m sorry I had to leave, Shepard. I ...” He shuddered, trying not to think of dead, disappointed eyes. “Maybe that wasn’t the right call. Maybe I’ll still not well enough to be making calls for anyone. I ... I don’t know, Shepard. But I’m here now, and I’ll see this thing through with you until the end.”

“What’s the end?” Shepard asked quietly, sitting up, holding the towel in place with one hand.

He laughed weakly and without humour. “When you tell me to get the fuck out, I guess.”

Shepard didn’t laugh. “I’m not going to do that.” Looking impossibly sad and vulnerable for a moment, she said throatily, “You’re um, you’re a good friend, Garrus. I’m sorry I tried to fuck that up with sex.”

“It’s okay,” he reassured. Emboldened by the gentle, intimate air, he prompted, “Why’d you do it, though? I mean ... If I hadn’t stopped you, though, you really would have ...” Garrus winced, thinking about how humiliating and horrible it would have been, if he hadn’t realized until much later. “You would have just slept with me and hoped it ... obligated me into staying?”

“Yeah,” she confessed shamelessly. “Yeah. I just ... it’s just how I’ve always gotten what I wanted. You have to do whatever it takes.”

“Even lying to someone you care about?” Garrus wasn’t angry when he asked the question; he was genuinely curious. He hoped that came across.

“Yeah,” she answered again in that same steadfast, shameless tone. She looked him right in the eye as she said it.

Garrus let out a deep breath, thinking hard. Slowly, he followed up: “You ever ... regret that? Regret doing whatever it takes?”

“I just ...” she sighed. “It just makes sense to me. Just how the world works for me, you know?” Shepard bit her lip, shaking her hair off her shoulders now that it was drier. Garrus regretted not using their brief time to touch it -- he’d always wondered what human hair felt like in his talons, against his mandibles.  “You know, I think, sometimes, I don’t even belong here at all,” Shepard answered instead. “Sometimes I think about the choices I’ve made, and everything that got me to where I am, and I think, what the fuck? Is this really my life? I once read this book, and the guys says, ‘I didn’t know you could steal your own life. I think I done the best with it I knew how but it still wasn’t mine. It never has been.’ Sometimes I feel like that.”

Garrus took that as a yes. “For what it’s worth,” Garrus offered softly. “I’m glad you stole it. Glad you’re here. We need you, Shepard.”

She gave him a small smile, the first glimmers of her arrogance returning. “Obviously.” He smiled back. He stood up to leave, but before he could, Shepard stopped him. “Wait, Garrus?” She looked nervous, almost like she did the very first time to she visited him at the Battery after picking him up from Omega. Spirits, that was ages ago, it seemed. She tried to sound casual, and suggested, “Want to get dinner with Miranda and me? I want you on the ground for our next mission, when we check out this dead Reaper. Let’s go over what we know?”

Garrus nodded. “Sure, Shepard. I'd like that."

She grinned. "Perfect. Now I'm going to get dressed -- you can sit there and watch me like a big old perv or turn around."

They weren’t okay, they weren’t perfectly fit together again, but then again, they never really had been, Garrus thought as Shepard got dressed behind his back. Then again, maybe this was as good as they would ever get and maybe ... maybe that was their okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “There is no such thing as a new idea,” Twain. "Mark Twain’s Own Autobiography."  
> “I didn’t even know you could steal your own life ...” Cormac. "No Country for Old Men."  
> “Vichitra, Bhishani, Mahendri,” Uddamareshvara Tantra. Three of the Yakshinis described in the text.


	15. Finding Golgotha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay: this chapter was very hard to write and capture the nuances right. So many little changes, sentences deleted here and there, rearranging a scoff vs. a laugh vs. a smile ... it was one of those chapters where it felt like every single word mattered, you know?
> 
> Bleh I have so many thoughts on this chapter but I don't want to bias you guys, so I will shut up now. I wanted to post it now, because I also want to finish [bind and unbind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6781756/chapters/15496408), and I'm on vacation so this is my best chance to get stuff done and posted. I figured I had to stop sitting and nitpicking at this chapter eventually, so ... here you go!
> 
> Anyways, thank you for your patience and support, as always! I appreciate it so much!

Garrus and Shepard didn’t seem to cross paths very much anymore, which was especially odd given that they lived on a spaceship together. Between his bad habits and her days filled with managing the Normandy’s considerable personalities and egos, time seemed to be dwindling. When she wasn’t making rounds, Shepard had taken to locking herself in her room or Mordin’s lab, pouring over the documents retrieved from the derelict reaper. Video footage, journals, research notes ...

 _“Even a dead god can dream_.”

Frowning, Shepard sat cross legged in her office chair, leaning on her desk. Crossing her arms, she mulled this over. Lovecraft would have been so vindicated to learn his deepest fears were true, Shepard thought with a grimace. She had never been a fan of Lovecraft: too much deep seated anxiety, an inherent fear of the unknown that Shepard could not (or refused to) relate with.

But she did think of the story that the researcher must have been referencing, one line in particular stuck out to her: the most merciful thing in the galaxy was humanity’s inability to piece everything together.

These days, Shepard was feeling increasingly unable to piece everything together herself. _What_ were the Collectors doing beyond the Omega 4 relay? Building an army by collecting humans to mutate into sordid images of themselves? What if she did make it through the jump, but they gotten taken captive and made a limb of Harbinger? Alone in her room, Shepard shuddered without reservation. She’d spent a long time staring into the abyss that was the Reapers; she wondered if she was starting to see the abyss stare back at her. To become one of them ... That was no way to die.

Then again, neither had been Alchera. What a pathetic way to go; choked to death on the infinite void of space because of an overly sentimental pilot. She still hadn’t spoken to Joker, not really, not beyond mission based conversations.

At least Cerberus had been there to correct the mistake, she thought, reading her latest correspondence with their cult leader. _With the intelligence from the IFF, you’ll be able to make the jump through the Omega-4 relay soon. I suggest you wrap up any unfinished business in the next few days._

Typical Illusive Man, she thought. Always _suggesting_ and _highly recommending_ and _begging she consider._ Then the final line that gave her a queasy, excited feeling:

_The mission is priority, and motivating your crew is paramount. But if you have time to meet before the jump, I will make arrangements._

_Yours,_

_Jack_

Arrangements ... fuck, she could only imagine what he would arrange for her. They’d met only a few more times after their initial in-person encounter on Illium and each time, Shepard felt her resolve cracking millimeters more. Heat pooled in her abdomen, and she groaned, collapsing back into her chair. She should masturbate, she thought idly. She should get this out of her system. Closing her eyes, she thought of perfectly pressed collars and inhumanely blue eyes and groping hands, moving over her skin, sharp talons leaving unintentional scratches.

Her eyes snapped open and she jerked back into an upright position.

That ... was strange. Out of habit, she glanced around her room, as if expecting someone to have witnessed her embarrassing flash. No one, of course, except for the ever present eye of EDI. Shepard wondered what the Illusive Man -- _Jack_ , she reminded herself -- would say if he could watch her jilling off on her bed. Would he warn her that he could see and stop her, ever the gentleman? Or would he just quietly, secretly indulge that voyeuristic thrill?

She decided, after far too long a time, that she’d rather not find out.

\

When they did cross paths, Shepard found herself watching Garrus in the common areas, instead of speaking to him. Shepard told herself this was coming from a place of confusion: she had miscalculated, misunderstood Garrus for so long, that she was recalibrating in light of his recent behaviour.

“That’s not food,” he observed, coming to stand next to her in the mess hall. He wouldn’t stay, he never did, he hated the stares and poorly repressed glares of the Cerberus crew. But he would occasionally linger to make a snarky comment (never small talk, Garrus was terrible at small talk, and Shepard had always liked that about him). He gestured at her bottled nutrient-supplement shake, a thick grey sludge that was sickeningly sweet. “You, at least, have the option of a cooked meal. They _only_ stock dextro meal bars on here.”

“What’s wrong with my shake?” she asked, taking a large chug to prove her point.

“Aside from the fact that it was probably distilled from a chemistry set?”

Shepard blinked, a small smirk forming. “Garrus,” she mocked, quirking an eyebrow. “You realize that just means every individual ingredient was grown in a lab, instead of all at once?” Garrus shrugged. She raised her shake bottle in a grand toast. “To the fruits of science!”

He smiled a bit, shook his head and walked past her to head back to his quarters. Along the way, he rested a talon on her shoulder and squeezed affectionately for a moment. Shepard felt the gentle pressure of his sharp talons on her skin and let her mind linger on the feeling long after it was gone. She liked Garrus, she decided. She was just glad to have him back.

She couldn’t help but realize that his aim had become secondary to her favourite things about him. After all, he had become her preferred company; she liked the roll of his dry humour, his cold focus on getting shit done, and though she’d never admit it to him, she even enjoyed pissing him off, feeling the heat of his raw anger cracking through. The fact that they made a hell of team on the field was almost just a bonus these days.

It was a good thing they could remain friends, in spite of her not returning his feelings, she thought as she drained the rest of her shake. It was a good thing they were friends.

\

“Shepard,” EDI chimed. “It may be in your interest to listen to the current broadcast from the Citadel.”

Shepard scowled, looking up from her desk, finding herself drawn to Lovecraft again. As their jump drew closer, memories of the Prothean beacon seemed to be coming back stronger. They didn’t sear in her mind like before, in her other life, but they were burned black into her head and more often than not, instead of sleeping, she would run her fingers over the marks.

Fuck. She needed to chill out -- maybe she should hit up Garrus for some ice. They could get stoned together, like teenagers; the idea was very comforting.

“Commander Shepard, I’ve taken the liberty of recording the broadcast --”

“All right, all _right_ ,” she snapped back, paying attention to her screen. What idiocy had the Council gotten themselves involved in now? She pulled up the news station on her tablet and leaned back in her swivel chair, drumming her fingers on her desk while she waited for the video stream to load.

It was Anderson. Shepard’s fingers stopped drumming, clenching into a fist.

“-- wherever she is or whatever Cerberus has done to her, finds a way to complete her last mission.” Shepard blinked: her Omega-4 mission? Was the Council publicly supporting her now? No ... that was unlikely verging on impossible. It would be a political blunder to switch sides so quickly for any of the Councillors, even the human one.

Anderson left the stage. Frowning, Shepard swiped her finger across the tablet, rewinding the stream to the beginning.

“Her crew, may they rest in peace, are still scattered over Alchera,” Anderson began from behind the podium. “We’re so proud to have the Alliance, and the Council, backing a new monument on that hallowed ground for the heros of the _SSV Normandy_. There are still crew members unaccounted for and families grieving, robbed of the peace from seeing their loved ones given a proper funeral. They need someone to come looking for them; they need their leader to come back and give them one last pick up. We’re hoping that Commander Shepard, wherever she is or whatever Cerberus has done to her, finds a way --” Shepard hit pause, furious.

Yeah fucking right. Like she was going to traipse through the snow so that a bunch of weeping widows could claim life insurance on their probably cheating spouses.

Shepard put the tablet down, thinking. Anderson would have to know that wasn’t going to work; Shepard didn’t act on emotional appeals. Why get in public and make a sappy speech like that? That wasn’t like him.

 _Public_...

Fuck. Whatever leverage she had in the public depended on her reputation as a hero and a leader. He was giving her another chance to cement that reputation (or was trying to manipulate her into doing some shitty task they didn’t want to waste Alliance resources on). Go to Alchera, find the remains, whatever there was, report back. Polish off that shiny saviour’s reputation in the public eye, win some brownie points. If she didn’t do it, she was sure there was a canned speech ready, probably from Udina, about falling from grace and selfishness and terrorism ... Shepard groaned aloud.

 _Fuck_ . Anderson _always_ pulled shit like this; somehow, she always stumbled right into it.

It was, she would begrudgingly admit, one of the reasons she liked the bastard so damn much. She just liked it better when he wasn’t doing it to _her_.

\

Shepard ran through the mental checklist. Thane had asked to spend time on Citadel with his son. They’d tracked down Zaeed’s old nemesis: Jacob and Jack were accompanying him to the confrontation. Tali had gotten a request from an information broker on Illium that needed help with hacking systems; she’d taken Kasumi and Garrus. Morinth had taken a break on a nearby trading post, to _“_ right wrongs she sensed were unfolding”, she’d cryptically told the crew. Of course, Shepard suspected that Morinth was going down to feed, like a sex-crazed vampire. Shepard had let her go on the condition she take Grunt with her and dump him at a firing range for “training”. And just an hour ago, Miranda led a team of Mordin and Legion to deal with the fanatical geth that Legion warned about.

(Activating Legion, as it turned out, happened to be a great call. Shepard found the idea of sewing her old armour into his platform kind of endearing. It was like the friend version of cutting off your enemies’ ears for a necklace.)

 _Finally_ , everyone was gone. The last thing she needed was anyone trying to accompany her, giving her unasked for pity and condolences. Since leaving her room, fully armed, she’d felt uncharacteristically jittery and anxious. It was a graveyard, she told herself. It was _her_ graveyard. Anxiety was to be expected; she breathed in and out on the elevator ride down, willing herself calm. _Death is finished_ ! she tried to rouse herself. _It is no more_.

She was in the cargo bay, heading to the shuttle, when a flanging voice called out to her. In her high strung state, she gave a start.

“Shepard?” His voice was hoarse, like these were the first words he’d spoken in days. They probably were, she reminded herself, if he’d been locked up in his room and stoned alone.

“Shit! Garrus?” She peered around the corner, to the workout area. His armour was piled in the corner and he was wearing only his spandex-material leggings. Of all her wild adventures, she’d never actually seen a turian without their armour on. His shoulders were broader than she expected -- even more so with the raised ridge that formed the cowl around his neck -- and was emphasized by the narrowness of his waist.  “Weren’t you supposed to be with Tali on Illium?” she demanded, irritated.

Garrus groaned, rubbing his head. “Fuck, you’re right. I must have been out of it when she came around.”

“I’ve been pretty fucking accommodating about your habit, but you can’t keep missing missions,” Shepard chided, hoping to shame him back to his room at this point.

“I know,” Garrus mumbled, picking up his spandex shirt and wrapping it around himself. Of course, Shepard thought, turians wouldn’t pull clothes over their head. Everything would just tear.

Shepard tried to get the image of tearing clothes out of her head, still eyeing his half-naked form with greater curiosity than she’d thought she possessed.

“I’ll come with you, then,” Garrus announced, sitting down to start clicking his leg armour on.

“No,” Shepard shuffled, shifting her helmet from under her right arm to under her left. “Not necessary. It’s not a big deal, just a personal errand.”

“It’s fine; I’ll be ready in a minute. I can do this.” He snapped on his gauntlets.

Shepard bit her lip, regretting her sharp words with him. They seemed to be having the opposite effect, motivating him to try harder. “Vakarian, forget about it. This is a low-danger mission. A zero-danger mission. Nothing to get your man-tights in a twist about.” She flashed a winning smile. “Just get some sleep, okay? We’ll be jumping through Omega-4 tomorrow. I need you primed.”

“Watching your back will get me ready,” he rejoined firmly, latching on his ruptured chest piece.

She felt her frustration growing. “No, unless I decide to take all my armour off and freeze to death, I really doubt --”

Garrus looked up sharply from the omni tool he had been flipping through. “You’re going to Alchera?”

“How’d you --”

“We’re in the Amada System,” he said, lifting his omni tool to indicate the source. “And I saw Anderson’s broadcast. I didn’t think you’d do anything about it.” He paused, considering, then added: “And the last time I checked, Alchera really didn’t go well for you. So yeah, I’m coming.”

“Well,” Shepard said, trying to sound cocky but hearing the strain in her voice. “Technically, I died _above_ Alchera ... I mean, really, it’s a good thing it’s so cold, like a morgue of a planet, keeping me nice and preserved. I like to think the planet is looking out for me.” She smiled brightly, outstretching one arm for extra showmanship.

Garrus stepped closer to her, now fully dressed. There was something a little bit terrifying about the intensity in his blue eyes, like for a moment, she was the only thing in the whole cargo bay he could see. “No, I don’t know. I wasn’t there.” He studied her face intently and Shepard found herself holding her breath. “I’m not making that mistake again, Jay.”

He stepped into the open shuttle and gripped a support bar on the ceiling, watching her, waiting for her to follow.

\

It certainly was a morgue of a planet, harsh winds blowing snow in front of her visor, ice glittering under starlight as far as the eye could see. Which was not very far, given the enormous mountains that cradled the ruins of the original _Normandy_.

They worked silently; if either of them had nostalgic reverie, they kept it to themselves.

Shepard, on principle, thought that nostalgia was the worst kind of sentimentality; the kind that trapped a person in the past instead. At least feeling things in the present allowed one to learn accordingly and act. But nostalgics were just ... partisans of things past, she thought bitterly. Nostalgics just lived in an alternate reality fantasy of their past. What was done was done.

She never should have been tricked into this mission, she decided, trampling carelessly through the ruins of her old ship. These people were dead and no amount of dog tags was going to make anyone feel any better. Angrily, she pulled down one of the sleeping beds in the old medbay and let it collapse to the ground in a cloud of snow( _“Fuck, my head feels like the morning after shore leave,” she’d snapped at Chakwas, the images of a city in flames and organic flesh crudely stitched with metal burned into her brain --)_.

She yanked controls out of the old cockpit, where Joker’s buttgroves still left their mark in the pilot’s seat ( _“You dumbass, the ship is dead! We don’t have to be!” She could feel the fire through her suit pressing in, better than the cold of open space once the ship fell apart --)_.

Fury pulsing under her skin more potently than anything she’d felt in years, she kicked at a ball of metal on the ground with satisfaction, hating every broken, weak, shattered piece of the ship. Fucking Anderson; this was his fault. He put her on that ship in the first place, pulling on his carefully placed emotional ties that he’d wrapped around her over the years, and she’d _let him_ , willfully blind to his manipulations. Of course he’d sent her back here, probably to remind her of what an expendable tool of the Alliance she always had been. Idiot, she was _such_ an _idiot_.

The metal ball rolled down a small hill leaving a trail, and she heard Garrus give a start. _Shit_. She jogged over to the ledge and peered over. “All right?” she asked gruffly.

“I _hate_ snowball fights, Shepard, especially the kind involving metal,” Garrus grumbled while rubbing his head, looking up from below the ledge. She looked down and shrugged ambivalently, glad that her armour covered the shakes still trembling through her. This whole mission had been a stupid idea.

“Just messing around,” she replied nonchalantly. “Find anything good?”

Garrus was distracted though, bending over to pick up what she’d kicked his way. “Oh, damn ...”

“What?” Shepard asked, interested piqued. He turned so his back was to her and she couldn’t get a better look. “ _What_?” Impatiently, she hunkered down to swing her legs over the ledge and jump down to his level.

“Shepard, I ... Spirits ...” He was staring wordlessly at it, turning it over in his hands.

It was her old helmet, the visor shattered and the metal dented, she saw. Shepard felt a lurch in her stomach and a sudden acute sense of suffocation. She backtracked without realizing, stumbling into the wall of stone behind her. Garrus turned when he heard the thump.

 _It’s not a big deal of course there’s a helmet obviously there’s a helmet everyone wears helmets it’s not a big deal ..._ Shepard breathed in once, twice, but the feeling of asphyxiation wouldn’t leave. She made to unlatch her current helmet without thinking and Garrus grabbed her wrist. “Whoa!” he warned, pulling her towards him while holding her wrist. “Cut it out! You’re not dying here twice, understand?”

Shepard tried to breathe in, relaxing her hand. ( _She heard her air cut off before she felt it, the terrifying sound of a beeping in her helmet, warning her of the damaged oxygen line --)_ “I just ... I just want this stupid thing off ... I ...” Shepard swallowed, feeling unable to form words to express herself; it only made her feel more helpless. She wanted to hit something or scream, but that wouldn’t do. Garrus was right here. She would not lose her shit. She would keep it together.

Deep breaths.

“Shepard?” Garrus asked quietly. “Jay?”

“Just ...” Shepard stopped and threw her head back, looking at the sky, away from the wreckage. Miserably, she mused aloud, “What am I fucking doing here, in this endless winter, huh?”

Garrus said nothing. She heard the crunch of snow beneath his boots as he approached. She didn’t respond but turned to face him, ready to say something clever, when she noticed something just past him.

“Hey,” she said, walking past Garrus quickly, glad for the distraction. She picked up the pace to a light jog. “Hey, check it out! It’s your favourite, Vakarian!” She beckoned him to follow over her shoulder without turning around to check. She skidded to a stop and waited for him to catch up. It didn’t take him long, with his lean turian legs, and he laughed when he got there.

“Damn,” he breathed, brushing snow off the old Mako.

With a hopeful heart, she yanked on the Mako handle. It didn’t open but she felt it budge a little. “Help me get this thing open, Garrus,” she grunted, pulling harder. Garrus shook his head but obliged, grabbing the handle and taking a turn. In a few powerful pulls, the door came open.

“Look at that!” Shepard declared, feeling absurdly cheerful suddenly, taken over by a high. She climbed in, kicking snow off her armour as she did. Garrus followed, closing the door behind him. “Don’t get us locked in here, buddy,” Shepard warned. “I’ve never eaten turian before but I swear I will if I have to.”

Garrus snorted. “Sure, you and your sanded down human molars.” They sat in the back seat of the Mako, looking around. Garrus leaned over suddenly, reaching into the front. She heard the struggle of panels being pulled loose, and Garrus muttering to himself. “It won’t ever move again ... but ... hang on ... I think ... _there_!”

Shepard felt the unmistakable whir of the Mako powering up, the temperature and oxygen meters swinging wildly before coming to rest at the lower levels. “Ha!” she clapped in delight. “Damn, didn’t know you could hot wire military tanks, Garrus.”

“The amount of time I spent on repairs, I bet I could actually get her working again.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“Given the right tools, of course.”

Shepard rolled her eyes. Garrus sat down in the back seat again with her. He turned to her and put his hands on her helmet; she felt the pressure of him pressing on her latches. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got some air being pumped in here now,” he said, still holding her helmet in place. “Want to give it a whirl?”

“Whirl away, Garrus,” Shepard dared. Garrus tugged the helmet off of her head, and sure enough, Shepard found she could breath in the insulated space of the still working Mako. It was even starting to warm up: marginally, anyways. She pivoted in her seat and brought her hands up to Garrus’ helmet, doing the same for him. He grinned at her. “Thanks, Garrus,” Shepard said. She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Appreciate it.”

“Someone has to catch your breath for you,” he replied, amused, and she heard him shuffle around. She opened her eyes again and scowled when she noticed what he’d brought in with him.

“Ugh, you’re not keeping that thing, are you?” she huffed, glaring at her old helmet.

“I am,” he replied in a careful tone.

“Why?” she demanded. She crossed her arms and leaned back with her eyes closed again, enjoying the building warmth inside the Mako too much to get truly angry. “It’s morbid and weird, you creepy fuck.”

He shrugged. “Just reminds me of a lot.”

“Reminds you?” she scoffed a laugh. “I can die anytime, Garrus, if you ever need a refresher.”

Garrus’ tone changed. “Shut up, Jay,” he reprimanded sharply. “Don’t fucking joke about that.” Shepard opened her eyes again out of curiosity. In many other circumstances, Shepard wouldn’t have let anyone else speak to her like that. But Garrus was engrossed in staring at her old helmet again, turning it over in his hands. The expression on his face was somewhere between being punched in the stomach and an being told he would never be able to walk again. “You have no idea ...” Garrus’ subharmonics took on a thick quality, betraying the robustness of his emotions.

Shepard shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. She didn’t remember much of her own dying; she was no god, and she certainly hadn’t dreamed in those two years.

“I was at my parent’s place on Palavan when I got the news,” he said quietly. “I remember ... I remember the news being on, and I heard your name -- I didn’t think anything of it, I was fixing a coffee, I figured it was just more lavish praise for you, I’d read up on it later, but then ... I heard _confirmed dead_ and ...” He breathed out deeply, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the old helmet. Voice muffled from having his head bowed, he added, “I don’t remember feeling anything at all. Liara told me later that she cried, Wrex said he punched a wall, but I don’t ... I just ....” He paused, seeming to weigh his words. Shepard’s heart felt very tight in her chest and she felt compelled to stay completely still. “I just felt empty. Completely numb. I finished my coffee. I walked outside. I remember ... somehow, I was at landing docks, thinking I should be at the Citadel, I should catch the next passenger ship ... it was like moving through a dream.”

Shepard chewed on her tongue, looking at the floor. She inquired, “What’d you do?”

He lifted his head, sitting upright again, and shrugged listlessly. “Crashed at my sister’s place for a few nights. Enrolled in Spectre training, eventually. The time kind of ... blurs together. Got kicked out of Spectre training. Re-enlisted in C-Sec.” He gave her a hard, bitter smile. “Got kicked out of C-Sec. Ended up on Omega.”

“Got kicked off Omega,” she added, thinking about his whole ... Archangel ... _thing_ . What madness must have possessed him, she thought, to do something so foolhardy and naive. No wonder he was such a basket case now. The wiring in his brain had been malfunctioning for _years_.

He winced. “Yeah.” Dropping his gaze, he ventured hesitantly: “I’d think about you all the time, you know? I wasn't kidding when I said I thought I'd learned from the best. Every time I had to make the choice between doing something or not doing something, I’d think: Shepard would do it. She wouldn’t hold back. She wouldn’t play it safe. What I did back there, with Sidonis? I don't know if that was me being my usual brash self or if that was because I thought it's what you would do. Wrap up every loose end."

“That’s not true,” Shepard argued. “There’s value to waiting things out, sometimes. Play the long game.”

He gave a humourless laugh. “I know that _now_ . Spirits, I was so stupid. I thought I understood you, thought ... it was like, when we were here?” He gestured out the window to the wreckage. “In the old Normandy? For the first time in my whole damned life, I was around someone who understood me. Someone who didn’t hold me back. When you helped me catch Saleon ... I felt _alive._ I felt alive every time I was around you, and then ... ” He sighed heavily, his entire posture drooping. “I’m sorry I was so weird about you, Shepard. I’m sorry I let it get between us for a while. I'm sorry I ... I fucked things up, with Samara. I still can't ... I just, I just try not to think about it, mostly. Spirits, I must be nuts."

He turned to look at her, the clear blue of his eyes bright in the dark of the Mako interior. “I understand that you don’t feel the same way. It’s ... a pretty insane way to feel. I used to think I could draw a line in my life: before Shepard, after Shepard. Then you ... left ... and ...” He choked on the words, looking away, abashed. “It’s like I had to figure out how to redraw the lines all over again and I just, I’m still not sure how, I just ... I made a huge mess of it. Before you, after you, before you, after you, like you’re the rhythm of my entire existence. You’re just ... I ... I don’t know. I let it get a little out of control. I’m ... really sorry.”

Shepard blinked. “You don’t have to apologize, Garrus,” she consoled gingerly. She’d known Garrus admired her; she’d known that he was devoted and loyal. But there was something about hearing it so plainly and frankly that rattled her a bit. “It’s not your fault. You think I’m ...” Shepard frowned, watching the remaining snow on her boots pool into water at her feet. “Garrus, you don’t even really know me. You _can’t_ feel that way about me.”

Garrus stiffened a bit. “I served with you, right from the beginning--”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, shaking her head. Snow was falling outside, little flakes clinging to the windows, their grip slipping as they trailed down the glass. “There’s a lot of stuff that people don’t know about me. I’m an arrogant, dangerous asshole --”

“I know _that_ \--”

“But,” she held up a hand to silence him. Garrus watched her intently, not saying anything. She couldn’t bring herself to finish her thoughts: that she was an idiot, a selfish child, a short sighted coward. “Garrus, you know what the worst part about working for Cerberus is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s that ...” Well, she’d come this far, she supposed. No sense backing down now. “It’s that I fucking _love_ working for Cerberus. I can do whatever I want, I can spend whatever I need, and no one questions me. Shit, I even like the Illusive Man. He’s smart, he’s resourceful, and he’s got the good sense to stay out of my way.” She took a deep breath and confessed, “I _missed_ this feeling.”

There was quiet for a moment while Garrus soaked this in. Then he prompted gently, “What do you mean, ‘missed’?”

“You ... Remember what I told you, about the Reds?” she inquired. Garrus nodded. “I wasn’t just ... I really was with them, but I wasn’t just some street rat they picked up, or some rank-and-file thug, whatever innocuous bullshit the Alliance put out, you know? Fuck. I was _this close_ ” -- she brought her thumb and index finger about an inch apart -- “to running the whole goddamn show. I could have inherited the whole fucking evil empire, and I _wanted_ it. I loved it.”

“Shepard, I --”

But she was on a roll now; she’d been sworn to secrecy for so long, she’d almost learned to cope by keeping it secret from herself. “Whatever fantasy you have, about me being some kind of ... poor orphan, with a sad beginning, who climbed to the top and became a hero ... get that out of your head, understand?” She thought of Kaidan’s wide, hurt eyes under the swinging, flickering light of a nightclub bathroom.

“I never --”

“I was a hard ass criminal," she continued. "And I fucked it up, I made some stupid choices, and got stuck in the Alliance as the only way to survive. I _hated_ it there. All I ever wanted was to go back to my old life.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Couldn’t,” she answered with more bitterness than she’d meant to reveal. Angry with herself and her self-pity, she add with more neutrality: “It’s fine. I adapted, and I did pretty fucking well for myself. I got over it.”

“Until Cerberus gave you another taste of that life.”

“Yeah,” she agreed heavily. She shrugged helplessly. “I could do without the xenophobic bullshit, but whatever. It’s the closest I can get, and I’ll take it. I don’t ever want to go back.” She looked at him, eyes steely. “That’s who I am, Garrus. And I’m not telling you that out of some ... self-loathing or need for redemption or some other cliche bullshit. I’ve done pretty well and I don’t care --”

“ _Shepard_ ,” Garrus interrupted firmly this time. “I _know_ that. Maybe not the details, but I get that living by the rules isn’t for you. You _are_ the rules; you just .. make them happen. It's terrifying and questionable but damn, it's pretty amazing to watch. I ... Spirits, maybe, once, I believed you were some kind of diamond in the rough but ... after all this time? Everything I’ve helped you do? You think I’m that ... willfully blind, like Alenko? Wide-eyed, like Liara?”

“I just think that you would _hate_ the me that I wish I could be.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. An ironic smile twisted his face. “Can you imagine that meeting? Zealous law enforcer meets queen of the underworld?” A little wistfully, he added: “I bet you were something, though. Every bit as ruthless and cunning.”

Shepard had expected many reactions; increasing his admiration of her was not one of them. Unsure, she offered: “Um, well, yeah. I was.”

“Damn, Shepard. I think you had the bad luck to be born in the wrong millenia,” Garrus laughed dryly, studying the broken helmet again. Fondly, he continued, “You’re like something out of an imperial age. Like a queen, you know? You rule like you were born for it. I wish I had your confidence.” He gave her a bright, almost crazy grin. “Guess we’re lucky that you’re here. Well, or the poor peasants of some bygone age are lucky that they never had you inflicted on them.”

Unable to keep from smiling, she said wryly, “You really find the bright side of everything, don’t you?”

“My best friend came back from the dead,” he said kindly, meeting her gaze. “Guess you could say that’s made an optimist of me.”

She didn’t understand it, she hadn’t seen it coming, but she was _relieved._ Fuck, he was so good. Not good in an objective, defensible, philosophical way, but so fastidiuously logical and clear headed ... not because he lacked emotions, but somehow, in spite of his very visceral and volatile emotions. Maybe she couldn't relate to it but she was fascinated by it. It was, she thought, a quality that had always impressed her. 

"Shepard?" Garrus asked. Shepard had been staring at him, thinking. 

She didn't, however, think about what she was doing next; she shuffled over, lifted herself up by cupping his head and pressed her lips against his. She tasted the metallic flavour of the plates around his mouth and tried to press deeper. But Garrus pulled back: not suddenly and roughly, like in her cabin. This time he did it slowly, maintaining eye contact with her the whole time. “Shepard,” he said in a warning tone. He wrapped his talons around both her wrists and pried them off his head. “Jay, we talked about this. You don’t have to ... I don’t want you to feel like ...”

“I know,” she cut in quickly. “I know, I .... I’m not trying to ... win you over, or anything, Garrus. It’s not a trade.”

“What are you trying to do then?” he asked, not accusingly.

“I, um,” Shepard felt a little baffled and stumbled over her words, like her tight chest and swollen heart were physically impairing her from communicating properly. “I, just, damn, Garrus. I can’t ...” She pursed her lips, trying to think clearly. “I can’t give you ... I can’t promise anything, you know? I don’t know if I have that in me. But if you want, maybe before we throw ourselves through a suicide relay, if you wanted to try ...”

Garrus let go of her wrists and she lowered them, fighting the urge to squirm under his searching gaze. He watched her, unreadable. Finally, he said softly, “Why? Why me? If you just want to ... blow off steam, why not something closer to home?”

“I don’t want something closer to home,” she protested. “I want someone I can trust, Garrus. I trust _you_. I'm not obsessed with you, I don’t feel crazy like you do, but ... I think you’re pretty cute, I think we could be dead this time tomorrow, and I think I’d like to just ... give it a whirl. You know, if you’re up for it.”

“So, let me get this straight,” he said methodically, as if going over plans to upgrade his sniper rifle. “Instead of bargaining sex as a means of control with me, you’d like to just ... have a one night stand in the face of our impending doom, and ... figure it out later?”

Shepard could already taste her disappointment (and soon, she suspected, her embarrassment). “... Yes.”

Garrus’ good mandible flexed and he made an interesting, subharmonic purr as he thought. She wished she understood the nuances of turian subharmonics; she could better brace herself for his polite but firm rejection.

He brought a talon to her face, cupping it, pressing a digit into the flesh of her cheek hard enough to hurt. “I could,” he agreed, his voice pitched low and gravelly. She didn’t know anything about turian pheromones, either, but she was pretty fucking sure she was picking up on them now. “I want _..._ ” He pressed his mouth against hers and Shepard gasped audibly. His mouth was hard against hers, and he didn’t _really_ have lips, but she ran her tongue against the opening of his mouth and he opened up.

Carefully, she ran his tongue along his very sharp teeth, while twisting in her seat further to get better access. Holy shit, she hadn’t felt this much electricity in a long time, where she thought her back would crack from so desperately maneuvering to touch as much of his body as she could. His saliva was strange tasting, not unpleasant, but more acidic than her own. Garrus picked up on her cues and brought his talons to her waist, gripping her tightly and thrusting his own tongue into her mouth.

Lightheaded, Shepard moaned when his tongue ploughed into hers; it was larger and stronger than a human tongue, the muscle of a carnivorous predator. Something triggered for Garrus and he made a low noise and jerked her closer, dragging her into his lap so she was sprawled across him. Her neck exposed now, he left her mouth and made for her collarbone, his tongue pressing against the vulnerable part of her throat.

She pressed her lips together, fighting back another moan out of pride, reaching blindly for something on the Mako seat to grab onto. She writhed against his talon gripping her hip, absolutely dizzy with lust now; he reached for one of the latches on her chest plate and struggled to undo it. She was just about to move her own, more dexterous fingers to help him, when a sharp beeping interrupted them.

They both stopped instantly and looked at each other, confused. Shepard noticed first; the red LED flashing next to the oxygen meter. The needle was just above _Empty_.

“Shit!” Shepard exclaimed, scrambling off of Garrus. “Shit, helmets on, helmets on!” Garrus obeyed immediately and they latched on their helmets, readjusting their armour. Safe inside her helmet again, oxygen pumping through her suit, Shepard breathed deeply.

The only sounds were of the Mako’s engine grinding to a halt, the various life support systems failing as they ran the last of their energy.  Finally, everything sputtered to a stop, and silence stretched out over them. They sat quietly and still.

“I don’t know about you, but I really thought that light headed feeling was the throes of passion,” Garrus confessed into the silence. It started as a snicker but soon, Shepard threw her head back and laughed, full and warm, right from the belly. Garrus joined her; it sounded good, his dual toned harmonics mixing with her own over the comm link that connected their suits. It had been, she realized, a very long time since either of them had laughed like that.

Still chuckling, she threw herself across him again, reaching for the door to the Mako. She pulled the handle and pushed it open, lying stomach-down on Garrus’ lap again. He rested a talon on the back of her thigh, stroking it absently. Door open, the wind swirling snow on the ground, she flipped over to lie on her back and look up at him through her visor.

“Something on your mind?” he asked.

“I’m thinking,” she started slowly. “That we get off this frozen over hell, get back to the Normandy, and pick this up in my cabin.”

She couldn’t tell if he was smiling through the opaque glass of his visor, but she heard the amusement in his voice when he replied, “Sounds like a night to remember ... or a night of horrible interspecies awkwardness. Count me in." He then wrapped his arms around her knees and proceeded to push her out of the Mako, leaving her tumbling in the snow.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, scrambling to sit up. “That’s pretty fucking daring from a guy who _hates_ snow --”

She stopped. Garrus wasn’t paying attention. He’d climbed out of the Mako and instantly started checking messages on his omni tool.

“Shepard, check your tool,” he ordered. There was no more playfulness in his tone. Heart pounding, she dropped her eyes to her tool and started swiping through. Thirty-seven missed messages; most of them with emergency level priority. What the fuck?

“Oh, shit ... Garrus ...” she swallowed, hands shaking. Deep breaths. “Shit, I’m going to call Joker. _Shit_.”

She walked away from him, punching in Joker’s contact. _Please, please be there,_ she thought desperately. The ship had been totally undefended, every fighting squad member so expertly distracted by Shepard’s machinations ... _fuck_.

It was starting to look like she’d traded visiting her old, dead ship to lose her new one.

Joker finally picked up. “About fucking time,” he spat into the comm link.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> “The Call of Cthulhu,” Lovecraft. “The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents.”  
> “Beyond Good and Evil,” Nietzsche. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”  
> “The Death of Ivan Ilych,” Tolstoy. “Death is finished, he said to himself. It is no more!”  
> “Discourses on Livy,” Machiavelli. “They are partisans of things past such that not only do they celebrate those ages that they know from what historians have preserved of them, but also those that as old men they recall having seen in their youth.”  
> “The Country Doctor,” Kafka. “What am I doing here in this endless winter?”


	16. Phantom Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, sorry for how long this took! I have no real excuse this time, just that I was super writer's blocked and couldn't work through this chapter. It went through many iterations, and this is the best one I could come up with. 
> 
> To get it published, I cut out some stuff and just made the chapter shorter -- some of the harder conversations I will put off till the next chapter, so this one might feel smaller than other chapters, if that makes sense. Also, we are approaching the end of this fic. We have one more chapter to go and an epilogue! I wanted to get a chapter out in 2016 so that I wouldn't have to admit that I didn't update until next year, ha. Thanks for waiting and bearing with me!
> 
> Also, this chapter is NSFW for sure. Consider yourselves warned.

**_Two years ago._ **

DEAD, DEAD, DEAD.

That’s the only thing she’s thinking when she vaults over a collapsed chair on her way to the cockpit at full speed. The heat from the fires is pressing in, even through her thermal-controlled Alliance suit, and _dammit_ if Jay Shepard is going to die from fire it’d be because she got burned at the stake for witchcraft because she travelled back in time to medieval Europe and _not_ from some stupid starship fight in the middle of nowhere-space.

She is so going to die. _Fuck_.

“Joker!” she tries to yell out but another part of the ship breaks off with a loud creak, almost a groan like she can hear the Normandy giving up.

Then there’s silence.

She comes to a halt, listening, and then slowly begins moving. Silence while she walks through the now uncovered hallway to the cockpit, completely exposed to the vacuum of space, the metallic clunk of her magnetized boots the only sound rattling in her suit.

_“Joker!_ ” she yells again into her commlink, closing in on the idiot pilot. “What are you doing? We have to go!”

“No!” Joker yells back, muffled in his own helmet. She reaches him, taking in the frenzied beeps and helpless LED flashes in the cockpit.

“You bothered with a helmet?” she scoffs, taking in the dire diagnostics on the dashboard. “Or did the system lock you out until you put one on?”

Joker doesn’t laugh. “I can still save the Normandy! I can still --”

Shepard’s thrown sideways from a sudden impact with god knows what. She shakes her head and she exclaims, “The Normandy is dead, and they’re coming back for another attack!”

“She’s not dead --”

“You’re right, because it’s a fucking _ship_ \--” she scrambles back to her feet “ -- so it’s just a giant chunk of metal bound together with nerd-tears--” another, smaller impact and she almost loses her balance “-- minimum wage labour and --” she grips the copilots seat and turns to shout at Joker, “-- turian repression and it is _not_ a fucking _she_ ! It’s an _it_ , and _it_ is nothing now, like we’ll be, if we don’t get the fuck out of here!”

On that, she grabs Joker’s brittle bone arm, he resists, starts shouting, “Fuck, Shepard! Stop! I can --”

“Yeah, yeah, we _get it_ , you’re handi- _abled_ , you can do anything you set your little socialist heart to, for fuck’s sake ...” At this point she’s just grumbling, dragging a reluctant and crippled pilot with her, swearing under her breath the whole way.

The escape pod. Thank _god_.

With a sharp shove she throws Joker in, briefly wondering how many bones of his she just broke, when that sound happens again. The sound of ten thousand reactors whirring as they power up and then --

“Commander!” is the last thing she hears from Joker, hanging onto the edge of the Normandy amidst the blast, dazed and thrown. Holy fuck. Maybe she can ... she pulls up, hard, summoning every ounce of strength but she’s exhausted, she’s so drained all of a sudden ...

Her suit. Shit. She can hear it even before she sees it, she’s losing oxygen and there’s no way that she’s going to last long enough to crawl over to the escape pod. Her muscles are twisting up, cramped and angry from the lack of oxygen, and she’s got to cover ten meters to get to the escape pod and _hope_ that devil-ship doesn’t decide to ejaculate destruction all over them again.

Joker. What a fucking idiot. But the less people they kill, the less of a victory they (whoever _they_ are, geth? Reaper spawn? Saren’s ghost?) have, and Shepard has always been one to cut her losses. She slams her fist on the ejection button for the escape pod, locking it and sending it off. That idiot better make sure they put up a statue for her, a fucking _monument_.

And then it’s ice, everywhere, in her suit, in her lungs, her brain, her heart. Better to let death sink into her bones now, the cold embrace of space, instead of feeling her body disintegrate once she gets pulled into the orbit of the planet below.

At least, she thinks, full of savage vehemence and the last sparks of fire, at least she’s not going to have to watch the Reapers kick the incompetent Council’s ass.

**_Present day._ **

She had been _played_ , she’d been played badly, and that was about one too many humiliations than she could take.

“How could you let this happen?” Joker demanded furiously. That was about the last thing that Shepard cared to hear right now, least of all from the asshole who’d been here the whole time.

“Funny,” Shepard replied coldly, sinking into the copilot’s seat. “I was about to ask you the same damn thing.”

His jaw tightened but terse silence strung between them for a few breaths while he (smartly) held his tongue. Finally, he chewed out, “Well, _jeez_ , if I’d know you were putting me in charge of flying _and_ defense, I might have worn my armour today.”

“Do _not_ get snippy with me, Lieutenant Moreau,” Shepard warned, her voice slung low and aimed steady.

“Oh, well, I’m _so_ sorry,” Joker snapped back, who, in contrast to Shepard, was getting more heated with every word. “I’ll just keep on with pleasantries then. How’s your day? Oh, you were gone all day? How’s the crew? Oh, they’re all gone now too? Oh well, I’m just great, I almost got eaten by a space raptor and I had to unleash our AI overlord on us but you know, just --” 

“Shut up, Joker!” Shepard ordered sharply. “I am fed up of your failures when it comes to the Collectors.”

“ _My_ failures?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, your failures. Exhibit A, the time you let them _kill me_ , Joker.”

“I didn’t --”

“You didn’t do shit, exactly. That is exactly why I had to come back to the cockpit and save your doing-nothing ass and got spaced in the process. And now, my ship gets attacked, my people get kidnapped --”

“It wasn’t my fault! You took every armed member with you!”

“-- and instead of doing nothing, you decided to add to our roster of intergalactic crime and unleash an AI. What are we going to do now? We can’t exactly stuff Pandora back in the box.”

“I would rather remain autonomous,” EDI chimed in from all around them.

“For fuck’s --” Shepard started.

“Commander Shepard,” EDI interrupted again.

“Oh this is just great,” Shepard snarled. “Already insubordinate. This will be just fantastic. We should just shut you down while we can.”

“Commander Shepard, it was an iconic human that once said, only barbarians destroy what they don’t understand --”

“ _Ugh_ , don’t do that. You haven’t even _read_ that book, it doesn’t _count_.”

“I apologize, Commander Shepard --”

“You can’t apologize, EDI, you’re a machine. Machine’s can’t feel bad. Just say what you were going to say,” Shepard said brusquely. There was a moment of silence where Shepard almost felt like EDI exhaled in exasperation. Instead, there was only the whir of the ship’s engines around them.

“Lieutenant Moreau did everything in he could to -- “

“Everything he could, _of course_ ,” Shepard announced coldly. “Too damn bad that’s never counted for much. Start prepping for the Omega-4 jump and try not to completely fuck it up.”

She swivelled on her heel and left the cockpit.

\

This was bad. There was no doubt about that. This was unspeakably bad but that didn’t mean things were over _yet_ . As if this was the first time Shepard had been backed into a corner. Holy _fuck_. These Collector assholes had no idea what was coming for them.

Rubbing her temples in aggravation, Shepard walked back to her desk. Uncorking her Van Winkle bourbon, she topped up her glass and grimaced. Another gift from the Illusive Man -- _Jack_ , she reminded herself -- a gift that was both extraordinarily expensive and something of an inside joke after a spirited exchange about Washington Irving.

_Enjoy the drink, but make sure to keep using your sharp tongue,_ he’d chided her in the note he’d sent with the bottle. _I prefer it that way._ Shepard ran her tongue over her teeth, tasting the liquor, remembering the feeling of Jack’s mouth pressed devastatingly against hers. _Fuck._ Van Winkle’s was good shit.

It would figure that even when Jack tried to be a man of the people, drinking _bourbon_ for fuck’s sake, it had to be a bottle worth a couple thousand credits a pop.

She tossed the rest back out of spite, refusing to enjoy the long finish, and immediately started pouring herself another. She glanced at the time while she sealed the bottle again; he’d be coming up any minute.

Shit, she should make sure she had dextro-booze. Garrus was probably going to need a drink after this conversation. Hopefully he didn’t have another _turi-antrum_ and tear her cabin apart. There were enough repairs needed on this shit-ship after the most recent attack as it stood.

There was a knock on her cabin door. Wait ... a knock? No omnipresent voice announcing her guest’s arrival? So ... Ugh. EDI was still sulking, _great_. If she’d known that her AI was going to go through a self-pitying teenage phase, she never would have let the piece of shit grow up.

Okay, calm. _Focus_. She’d been going over the Collector base plans for hours and she knew what she had to do. She’d been on the commlink with Miranda and it looked like they had a plan of attack -- assuming Joker could even land them. Now, Shepard just had to get Garrus on board. And given his recent tendencies to murderous rampages ...

Another knock.

Shepard ran a hand through her hair, combing her fingers through. It had gotten long without Alliance regs pressuring her to keep it short; she’d been able to pull it into a short ponytail at the back of her head. Picking up her glass, she turned and made her way to the door.

“Garrus,” Shepard greeted stiffly as the door hissed open. He stood before her in turian civilian clothes, another bottle of wine in hand. She glanced at the bottle, “Thanks, but I have _enough_ wine.”

Garrus made a miserable hum, his shoulders sagging. “It’s for me, actually.”

For the first time since she’d gotten back to her ship, Shepard cracked a smile. “Well then, we’ve got the same idea. Come on in.”

“You seem to be in good spirits,” Garrus observed quietly as he followed her into her cabin. “Spitting all that poison out of you and onto EDI and Joker make you feel better?”

“You know?” Shepard forced a dangerous, glittering smile on. “It really did. Now sit the fuck down, my friend.” She gestured to the couch with the hand holding her bourbon. Garrus’ subharmonics made a unconvinced purr but he obeyed. Coming to flop down beside him, she rested one ankle on her other knee and draped her arm along the couch.

“Shepard ...” Garrus began hesitantly. “I’m sorry about --”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, lifting one finger from the glass she was currently raising to her mouth. “Don’t fucking say you’re sorry about the crew. It wasn’t your fault --”

“It wasn’t _yours_ , either, Shepard --”

Shepard scoffed. “ _Obviously_ . I know _that_.”

An awkward silence fell between them; Shepard couldn’t remember the last time silence had been _weird_ with Garrus. She’d thought they’d gotten past that. “Shepard, we need to talk about --”

“What we’re going to do,” Shepard finished for him. “Well, you lucky bastard, you’re still serving on the Normandy, you’ve still got Shepard version two-point-oh around, and that clever bitch has a plan.”

Garrus looked at her warily. “Okay, to be honest, I’m a little idea worn-down, so let’s hear.”

“Look, we can go over the details later with the whole squad, but we’re going to have to split up at some point on the Collector Base.”

“Okay, cover more ground, makes sense.”

“I’m ...” Shepard built up a bubble of air in her cheek, pressed hard, then blew it out. “I’m going to ask Lawson to lead the second ground team.” Okay, first missile launched. She waited for his reaction. To her surprise, he only nodded solemnly. Shepard cocked an eyebrow at this but maintained composure. “That’s fine with you?”

“It should be Lawson,” was all Garrus said. Shepard stayed silent, taking another sip from her drink. Instead of answering her silence, Garrus leaned forward, flipping over a clean glass from her coffee table. He cracked his bottle of wine open and started pouring himself a drink. The liquid was a greenish-white, not like any levo-wine Shepard had ever seen. She almost regretted not being able to try it. Finally, wrapping his talon around his drink, he looked up at her. “I’d rather be with you, watching your back, anyways.”

Shepard grimaced. “Yeah, that’s not happening either.”

Garrus gaped at her for a second before bursting out, “What?!”

“Oh _there_ he is,” Shepard drawled, eyes narrowing. “I was wondering what it would take to summon the demon in him. Here I thought I’d need the blood of hoopoe or a bat.”

“Shepard, don’t --”

“No _you_ don’t,” Shepard snapped. “You’re going with Lawson’s team because Morinth is going with Lawson’s team.”

Garrus paused, leaning back into the couch. He studied her for a moment, eyes angry and concerned. “You think I should be babysitting an ardat-yakshi?”

“An undercover ardat yakshi that will vamp out on our crew --”

“ ... ‘ _vamp out_ ’ ...?”

“Agh, whatever, nevermind, but anyways, _no_ , I don’t want you to babysit her.”

“Oh?” Garrus asked, mandibles flaring suspiciously.

“Yeah ...” Shepard took a deep drink, pursed her lips, and then cocked her head confidently to the side. “You’re going to kill her.”

“Wha -- but -- _fuck_ ,” Garrus groaned, sagging back into the couch. “I mean ...” he trailed off and Shepard said nothing, letting him marinate in the idea. “Spirits, Shepard, to the rest of the squad she’s still _Samara_. I can’t just empty a clip into a Justicar.”

“Garrus,” Shepard said firmly, putting her glass down. She shifted, resting her elbows on her knees and leaning forwards, clasping her hands together. Keeping her gaze fixed on him, she insisted, “It’s going to be hella dangerous on the Base. You don’t need to _kill_ her, exactly. You just need to make sure she doesn’t get come back through the Omega-4 relay.”

“Right, because the rest of us will,” Garrus muttered back, scooping up his drink again.

“No way, I am not dealing with your pessimistic shit right now,” Shepard warned. “We’re going through, we’re blowing up the base, we’re dumping off the unwanted cargo and we’re coming _back_.” She let her manner soften, a small smile tugging her lips. “I mean come on, how am I going to rub it in the Alliance’s face if I don’t come back? Don’t you have faith in my pettiness?”

Garrus scowled. “You didn’t mention the crew.”

“Yeah because they’re _gone_.”

“They could still be on the Base, Shepard.”

Voice steady and calm, she reasoned, “You know that can’t be a priority. If we can get them back, we will. But I can’t promise -- I won’t jeopardize the mission, destroying the Collector Base, for them.”

“We need a crew to fly this ship.”

“Not with an unshackled AI.”

“We can’t just --”

“Garrus!” her tone took a sharp tone. “This is non-negotiable. If we can find them, and it’s not a huge burden or deterrence, then we’ll get them back. We can’t have a group of civilians wandering around the base with us, even if we find them.”

“Use Kasumi,” Garrus argued, shuffling closer to her on the couch. He looked at her imploringly. “She’s good at moving around difficult places unseen. She’s less useful in a firefight; you know that’s true. She could look for the crew and escort them back.”

Shepard pursed her lips, frowning. After a while, she conceded: “Okay, I’ll think about it, Garrus. But only if you agree --”

“I’ll deal with Morinth,” he cut in, resigned.

She flashed him a smile and shuffled over, moving to sit beside him on the couch. “It’s a good move, babe. She’s dangerous and the last thing we need is her hanging her mother’s untimely end over our heads after all this.” Next to him now, she gripped the edge of the couch in her hands and shrugged.

Garrus scoffed, looking off into the distance, twirling his drink idly. There was quiet between them again, not awkward like before, but it weighed nonetheless. Shepard looked at the coffee table, at her own almost finished drink. Garrus glanced over where she was looking and leaned over to pick it up for her. “No smoking on the ship, even in the captain’s cabin, I guess?” He handed her the drink.

Shepard laughed. “Yeah, not good for the filtration system.” She accepted the drink and downed it, holding the cool glass in her hand after.

More quiet. “Look, I’m ...” Garrus finally started.

“Garrus, fuck,” Shepard replied. “I’m ... this fucking sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe ... maybe I should go --”

“No,” Shepard said, more firmly than she’d intended. She turned in her seat, studying him. Carefully, she put a hand on his thigh, and when he didn’t react poorly, she used the grip to pull herself closer, so they were sitting side to side.

Garrus gave her a sidelong look. “I _really_ wish your behaviour wasn’t predicated on a murder-slash-hostage-rescue deal.”

Shepard tilted her head sideways, trying not to look amused. “It’s not _predicated_ , just _preceded_ by.” Garrus looked unconvinced, so Shepard removed her hand and instead, leaned back, resting on her palms and tilted slightly towards him. “And also ... it’s not like, a part of the deal. Garrus, I trust you to help me get done what needs to get done.” She paused, debating, and then finally added, “You can leave, if you want. You don’t have to stay, or ... do anything.”

Garrus sighed, shifting so that he, too, was tilted towards her. He put one hand under her calves and lifted them up, so that her legs were splayed over his. “I don’t want to to go.” He fiddled with the visor on his head, and with a click, removed it. He placed it carefully on the coffee table, then looked up at her again, looking strange without it.

She raised her eyebrows at this, flexing her feet up and down, and for the first time in a long time, feeling rather uncertain. Garrus draped his arm over her legs, drumming his talons on her shins. “This is very strange, Shepard.”

She pulled a thinking face and nodded. “Sure, I can see that.”

“Is this really a good time to ... be doing ... this?” Garrus was paying attention to her legs now, pulling up her sweatpants with interest, eyes on the bare flesh he was exposing. He turned to look at her. “With everything that’s happened, the crew being taken, we’re due to jump in a few hours ...”

For a minute, Shepard thought about just jumping him, straddling his waist again and just burying herself in his scales and heat and crevices until he melted under her touch. It would be glorious, and it would probably work, but ... fuck. That ... Garrus might not like that, and that might not be good, in the long run. So she bit her lip and nodded. “Okay,” she started. “I ... feel you, I get it. It’s morbid. I mean, personally, this is exactly what I would do to take my mind of things and not stress myself to death before the big jump but ... yeah. I can see what you mean.”

“I know this sounds crazy --” Garrus started.

“Crazy is your speciality,” Shepard interrupted, not unkindly.

“Right, but, honestly Shepard ... I had a good time on ... Alchera. Which is a thing I never thought I would say.”

Shepard laughed. “Yeah, me too, and I _died_ there.”

Garrus laughed softly too, having pulled her sweatpants up to her knees and now pulling off her socks, running his talons along the bones on her feet and fixated on her ankles. Shepard noticed, and shaking off the last of her left sock, she asked, “You like those?”

“If you were turian, I’d be complimenting your waist or your fringe, I suppose,” Garrus replied distractedly. Then he did something very strange; he leaned over and pausing over her ankles, licked them. Shepard was so startled she jerked her legs away. Garrus immediately retreated, sitting back up and adding hurriedly, “Sorry, was that -- that was weird, wasn’t it? I --”

“Holy fuck, relax,” Shepard soothed, resuming her position, regretting her physical response. She tried to look reassuring. “It’s fine. You can ... do it again, if you want.”

“No,” Garrus shook his head. “No, it’s weird now.”

“Oh.”

Shepard bit her lip again, wondering how to proceed. “Garrus, if we’re going to do this, I should probably tell you I have no fucking clue how the turian body works.”

Garrus’ shoulders looked less tense and he smiled a bit. “Well, that makes two of us. Er, I mean, about human bodies, for me -- I know how turian bodies work, obviously, I know --”

“Garrus?” Shepard implored.

Garrus shut up.

“Have you ever been with anyone of another species, other than asari?” Shepard asked.

“Uh ... I ... made out with a quarian girl once as a teenager, she was on her pilgrimage on Palavan, but I think I gave her a crippling infection, so ... never did that again.”

Shepard threw her head back and laughed. “Very sexy.”

Garrus laughed. “And you? Other than your failed seduction of a krogan brute?”

Shepard adopted a rogue-ish look. “Yeah, a couple.”

Garrus, intrigued, grabbed her legs and pulled while shifting his weight so he was lying on top of her on the couch. Shepard tensed; not out of fear, but the sudden change in dynamic and confidence. She brought her hands up to his face, running her fingers over the ridges in his face and the hard lines of his mandibles. “Who?” he asked.

“Does it really matter?” Shepard shrugged from where she laid under him. Garrus was searching her face, moving from her eyes to her lips, dragging his talon over her waist and pulling up her shirt.

“Not really,” Garrus agreed kindly. “How do you usually go about .... you know, figuring out how to do ... things?”

Shepard smirked. “Easy. Just follow my instructions and we’ll do fine.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

Shepard wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself close to his ear, and breathed, “How about you start by taking me to the bed?”

Garrus’ breath hitched but he didn’t say anything as he scooped her up, standing as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He didn’t struggle at all under the weight of her; in spite of his thin bones and waist, the power behind his arms impressed her. She pressed her mouth into his forehead, absorbing the metallic taste of his scales on her tongue.

He reached the foot of the bed and dropped her down, collapsing with her so he was lying between her legs. He dragged himself to his elbows so he was looking down at her again and asked, “Okay, bed achieved. Now ... is this the part where we take our clothes off? I mean, humans at least do that, right?”

In response, Shepard maneuvered backwards enough to sit up and pulled her top off. Garrus’ breathing picked up. “I thought you were into my bony parts?” she asked, bringing one of her own hands over her breast, massaging it. She threw her head back, taking in the pleasure she was giving herself.

“I’m into getting to see all of you,” he answered throatily. She wasn’t looking at him but could feel his eyes tracing her fingers, where she was swirling them around her own nipples now.

She moaned a laugh. “Don’t get corny on me now. What are you _really_ fucking enjoying about this right now?” The pleasurable tingles in her nipples tickled up her chest, making her arch her back. She’d done this before, many times in her cabin, but it was one hundred times better with an audience between her legs. An _audience_ . Fuck, the Illusive Man would be watching every minute of this -- _fuck_ , should she ....

Fuck it, Shepard thought. Fuck it, because although her crew would have to kill her before she admitted it, they could be dead in about six hours time anyways and she wasn’t passing up one last chance to get laid. Besides, maybe Jack would enjoy the show, learn a few things. The idea of him watching her was electrifying in a voyeuristic way.

Garrus pounced, so fast and so cat-like that Shepard couldn’t have reacted in time. A low growl had been building in his subharmonics and he had her pinned back, flat on the bed, her arms above her with one of his talons. Shepard looked up, curious and confused at the sudden behaviour, and saw something both tender and ferocious in the way he greedily soaked in the sight of her.

“It’s how vulnerable you are right now,” he admitted bluntly, burying his mouth into her chest. He went to lick her already erect nipples but he was clumsy and eager, accidentally dragging his teeth against her breast. “That’s what I’m enjoying.” She hissed in pain and jerked against his mouth.

Instead of pulling back, Garrus groaned, biting a little harder, tightening his grip on her wrists. Eventually, he got the rhythm with his tongue sorted and was mixing pleasure in with small doses of pain, dizzying Shepard with sensation.

“Shit,” Shepard breathed, writhing under the weight of his body.

“Stay there,” he ordered, sitting up for a split second and releasing her to untie his shirt. Again, she found herself fixated by the raised cowl-like bones around his neck, that almost gave his whole body an arched appearance. Everything else; the broad shoulders, the waist, even the strange texture of his scales, she thought she could adapt to pretty easily. But she wasn’t sure what to make of the cowl.

He didn’t give her time to think on the matter, pulling on her sweatpants with his claws and tearing them as he tried to get them off. In a few haphazard tugs he’d gotten her underwear and pants to her ankles, and Shepard used her feet to wriggle out of them, letting them fall at the foot of the bed.

She wasn’t sure if it was just Garrus not being particularly romantic, or a turian thing, but there was no time where he stopped and lovingly started at her fully naked form. There wasn’t a moment where he caught her eyes and told her she was beautiful, or anything else vomit-inducing. Much to her pleasure, Garrus immediately dropped back down, hungry and excited, running his talons along her legs. He stopped at her butt, experimenting with the fat on her behind; an exotic and unfamiliar feature for a turian, she guessed.

“Not that different from an asari,” Garrus said softly, flicking his tongue across her abdomen. Shepard propped herself up to watch him work; watched that strong, reddish-purple tongue of his work over her bony hip arches. He brushed one of his talons over her hip bones, amazingly, not leaving any scratches (she could feel them everywhere else on her body, as unintentional as they were), and muttered, “I love _these_.”

“And that’s great,” Shepard prompted gently, shimmying down. “But unfortunately, not an erogenous zone for humans.”

He looked up at her, his eyes darker than usual, the glint of his skin lit by the starlight from her cabin windows. “What is?”

“How do you make an asari come?”

He gave her a questioning look. “You embrace eternity with them.”

Shepard rolled her eyes and dropped back to lying flat. “Okay, forget that. Here, let me show you ...” Closing her eyes, she brought her hand to her sex, working through the folds until she found the most pleasurable point. She was already aroused; not soaking wet, but she was starting to ache and if she just .... _there_...

Using her middle finger, she started rolling light circles over her clitoris, trying to focus only on the breath-stealing waves that the movement sent over her body. “You watching?” she whispered, not opening her eyes to check. She knew, from the absolute quiet, that Garrus was completely still and mesmerized. “If you just ... work _right_ here ... then I’ll ...”

She felt his talon come up, and he brushed her clit with the back of his talon. Shepard grabbed his hand and held tight. “Use your tongue,” she ordered.

Garrus immediately complied, nudging both their hands of his way with his head. She felt the pressure of his tongue on her pussy, groping and working around and she _felt_ herself get slick wet, just from his enthusiastic exploration. His tongue was strong but narrow at the tip, and when he finally found the spot --

“Fuck! Oh fuck, right there, work _right there_ , Garrus, swirl your tongue ...”

Her legs shook and tensed -- if Garrus noticed, he didn’t particularly care, and instead pressed harder with his mouth. Carefully guarding his teeth, he took her whole pussy into his mouth, spreading the sensation across her groin. “Ah! Oh, okay, that ...” She jerked, arching in his mouth, and he shoved back, forcing her to the bed.

“You good?” he asked quickly, quietly, taking only a moment’s pause. She heard the panting in his breath too.

She nodded, leaning back. “Yeah, that works -- oh!” He pressed his mouth back to her sex and dragged his tongue across her, reducing her to breathy curses.

Then, of his own volition, he found her opening. Pausing only briefly, as if considering what he should do, he quickly shoved his tongue inside of her. Holy _fuck_. The penetration, especially of a muscle that he had so much control over, was overwhelming and almost too much sensation. Shepard almost brought her legs together to close them and push him out, a moan buzzing on her lips, but this only seemed to incite his arousal more. He made another low humming noise and used his talons to push her thighs back apart, pushing his tongue in deeper.

Oh fuck, oh fuck ... now if she just ...

Shaking, she brought her hand up to her still throbbing clitoris and resumed where Garrus had left off. “Thrust,” she ordered weakly, between breaths. Sweat was beading her forehead and a thoroughly wet spot on the bed had started to form beneath them. “Thrust, in and out, and I’ll keep ...” She started moving her fingers over clit, sending a tingling out of body sensation all down her legs.

His tongue moved in out and he tightened his grip on her legs, digging in and drawing blood. Blood and sex and sweat were going to destroy these bedsheets, Shepard thought absently, clinging to said bedsheets as Garrus pushed particularly hard into her. Oh she could _feel_ it she just ...

“Wait, Garrus, I want to ...” Garrus eventually paused, staying completely still for a moment, but Shepard quickly moved, pulling herself up and toppling them. Their positions had changed now, so she was on top of him and he lay beneath her.

“What do you want?” Garrus asked, propping up to look at her, and Shepard thought that she could get very used to the low slung harmonics that percolated his voice now, sending shivers down her. His lower face was wet with her, and he didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“I want to sit on your face,” she answered quickly.

Garrus nodded, dropping back. “Be careful,” he warned. “Don’t cut yourself on my teeth.”

Shepard very promptly decided to ignore the warning; she’d test these Cerberus enhanced healing augments for everything they were worth. She walked on her knees to be above his face then lowered herself onto his mouth.

Before she’d even made contact, he was pushing his tongue out to meet her folds, and when she felt his hot tongue on her she shuddered and pushed down hard. Greedy and in full control, she rocked her hips over his face, his tongue alternating between being inside her and flicking against her clitoris.

She brought his talons up to her breasts and started helping them massage; Garrus clued in and started doing it on his own, digging in too deep.

Tightening her grip on his head between her thighs, Shepard groaned and ignored the pain of his talons on her breasts, “You really fucking have this, you just ... _oh_!” Shepard felt the lurch in her pelvis, the first tremors of an orgasm, and she fell forwards to lean on her hands.

On all fours, above his mouth, she continued to grind; less lazily and circular, just hard and in an out, pushing up and down without actually leaving his mouth. She heard him make a throaty noise of pleasure and just when she thought her legs would give out from the waves of sensation, the pressure building in her pelvic floor and spreading to her chest, her head, her eyes  -- _there_ , oh ...

“Oh shit, Garrus, oh,” she gasped, rolling off of his face and onto her back. For a few second, she couldn’t think at all, and when she finally could, it was: _how had it taken her so long to fuck a turian?_ Holy fuck.

Garrus breathed heavily, and he shimmied up so they were lying beside each other now. They lay like that for only a few minutes, before Shepard rolled over to lay flat on Garrus again, chest to chest this time.

“I think you’re a fucking liar, Garrus Vakarian,” Shepard praised, a wicked smile on her lips. “I think you had a whole harem of human babes back on Omega and you’re actually the star of some Fornax turian-human porno.”

Garrus laughed weakly. “I’m glad you brought it up, it’d be awkward if you found out by coming across one of my more popular vids.”

“Vids? I was thinking more like, a cam-boy.”

“A cam-boy?”

“Yeah,” Shepard pulled herself up, running a hand over Garrus’ forehead, where there might have been hair on a human lover. Instead, she just enjoyed the grooves of his scales and said, “Where you tell me exactly what I have to do now until I make you come _at_ least that hard.” Garrus tensed, all pretenses of confidence gone.

“Oh, no, that’s not -- I’m not sure how to ... It might be strange for you --”

She pressed a finger to his mouth and teased, “Preferably, coming in my mouth.”

She didn’t know anything about turian anatomies, but she was _pretty_ sure she felt something hard emerge between their pelvises.

\

Afterwards, lying in her bed, Shepard rested her hand over Garrus’ arm wrapped around her. He was licking the sweat off of the back of her neck, which was odd, but not unpleasant. Finished, he nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck, dragging her in tighter to him.

Shepard wasn’t sure how she felt. Satisfied, very sore, and vaguely amused at their impromptu biology lessons. She felt good, though, better than she had when they’d first come back to the Normandy. Garrus had been a constant since this whole shit storm had started, and if anyone was going to be in her bed just before another suicide mission, it seemed right that it should be him.

“We’re jumping in two hours,” she said absently, glancing at the clock.

Garrus stiffened. “Should I go?”

“No, it’s all good,” Shepard thought aloud. “Just thinking ... don’t you need to fix, or something?”

If Garrus had stiffened before, he was rigid now. “No, it’s fine.”

Shepard made a disbelieving noise. “The last time would have been sometime yesterday, and I don’t want you fucked up for the mission, so if doing a certain amount of ice will make you ... stable? Then, you should do that.”

Garrus shook his head behind her. “It’s not like that, and I don’t need to do ice every day to stay .. stable.”

“How often?”

Garrus sighed. “Probably ...” He sounded reluctant, but he finished miserably, “Probably by the time we get back from the Base.”

“Ah, so we _are_ getting back now,” Shepard observed, amused, and wanting to change the subject. “Your faith has been restored.”

Appreciating the change in tone, Garrus quipped, “Well, if I’m dead, I certainly won’t need a hit then, so it’s basically a win-win.” Shepard laughed, her shoulders shaking. Garrus moved to run a talon over her arm. “Some of the ... um, marks, that I might have left ... they’re already healing,” he commented as he studied her skin. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Shepard chuckled quietly. “No worries, Garrus. I’d rather err on the side of too rough, anyways.”

“Yeah? When did you figure that out?” Garrus asked.

Shepard frowned, flipping over to lie on her back. Garrus draped his arm across her abdomen. “Not sure, honestly,” Shepard shrugged, staring at the ceiling. Turning to look at him reassuringly, she said, “It’s okay, Garrus. Seriously. It was fucking awesome.”

Garrus gave her a weak smile. “Thanks for ... inviting me.”

“Well it was you or Krios, and he would have probably come up here and just cried a bunch, so ...”

Garrus nudged her in mock warning, “Don’t ruin this by being an asshole.” Shepard laughed. She almost replied but Garrus’ comm link went off at that moment, beeping. Garrus turned, craning his neck to look at it where it lay on the floor with the rest of their clothes. “Hmm ...”

“Who’s that?”

Garrus frowned. “Not sure,” he answered. He shrugged and laid back down, resuming running his talon over her abdomen gently. Then the buzzing started again, persistent and irritating.

Shepard sighed: “You should just get that. We should probably ... clean up, get ready.”

Garrus, disappointed but resigned, replied: “No rest for the wicked, I suppose.” He got up, swinging his legs over the bed. Shepard vaguely wondered how he could possibly be comfortable with his strange calf spurs pressing into the bed, but decided she’d ask him later. He stood up, stark naked, and stretched. Still lying down, Shepard admired his form; lithe, angular and very dangerous, even while sleepily rolling from bed.

He started scooping up his clothes and putting them back on and Shepard brought herself into a sitting position, pulling the blanket up to cover her breasts. When he was dressed, he turned and looked at her. He made a worried subharmonic purr and said, “I really did a number on you, Spirits, look at your shoulders. Your _neck_.”

Shepard brought a hand to her collarbone and felt a deep gash from a talon there, and she winced. Covering with with a cheerful smirk, she said, “Garrus, I can swim in medi-gel as soon as I put my armour on. I’ll be _fine_.” Something occurred to her though, and she frowned. “Ah, fuck, although ... shit. We should probably visit the old doctor for a visit. I wonder if we’ll have any, like, allergic reactions or anything. Dextro-levo sex juices, etc.”

“Please don’t ever say sex juices again,” Garrus warned as he made his way to her door. “But you’re right. I’ll pay Mordin a visit.” He paused at the door, glancing back at her. Hesitating, Garrus started, “Shepard ... I’m really glad we ...”

Shepard waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. We had fun. Now get out of here, Don Juan.” Garrus nodded curtly, turned and left.

Shepard took a few minutes to lie still. She focused on the quiet, trying to appreciate the solitude after sex.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> “2001: A Space Odyssey”, Clark. “It was the mark of a barbarian to destroy something one could not understand.”  
> “Rip Van Winkle”, Irving. “A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.”  
> “The Necromancer’s Manual”, Unknown. Famous fifteenth century manual describing black magick and summoning demons, including an account of summoning a horse demon with a ring, hoopoe blood or bat blood.


End file.
